1 The White Ball
by EllieMP
Summary: Like most of the fans, I was heartbroken with the way KFTLC ended. So, this fic puts the beginning to my personal post-Requiem series. We take a peek at the life of Peter Caine after the brands; about what he has learned as a priest and sifu, and the new secret he learns now. He's about to embark on a new adventure, too, one with many and lasting consequences, both good and bad.
1. PROLOGUE

_I am one of the many who never made made peace with the way KFTLC ended. So, with this story, I'm starting my personal post-Requiem series. _

_- To make it easier to follow I'm numbering each episode. This is naturally N1. :)_

_- Each story has a Prologue and an Epilogue, which are usually not directly related to the body of the main story, but rather serve as teasers._

_- I decided to keep Paul alive... for a while at least. I find it curious to explore his relationship with his foster-son after Peter takes the brands and quits the Force, though will be explore more in depth from the 3rd episode onwards._

* * *

PROLOGUE

_2 years after 'Requiem', February '99_

The sunny winter morning promised a nice day. Lively crowd was crossing the cleaned streets around 101st. Broderick looked at his watch, 9:20 and the captain had not checked in yet. With no lieutenant on board either it was his task to keep the place up and running. 'Story of my life,' he thought. Skalany came over and handed him a coffee.

'Bad time for Strenlich to take a holiday, isn't it?'

He did not like the ironic tone of her voice. 'I'll be fine. Besides, Strenlich will come along to welcome his temp, and the Commissioner came down specially to help me out.' He forced a smile, took a sip, then turned and looked over his shoulder.

Commissioner Simms had been keeping her former office since 8:30, nervously checking on the papers the captain had left unfinished, checking the clock, too, every 5 minutes.

'She's been waiting for him all eternity,' remarked the sergeant pitifully.

'You'd think they communicate a bit more,' added Skalany.

'…Aha…'

Broderick's absent minded answer made Mary-Margret turn. She followed the direction of his gaze and a silent 'Wow' welcomed a most unusual sight. It was the captain, holding his coat in one hand, engaged in a lively conversation with a tall, young woman. As he walked in, he gallantly stepped aside, wide smile on his face, and made way for the lady.

'Welcome to 101st precinct, lieutenant Jahn!'

**X**

_4 months after 'Requiem', May '97_

'OK, this is the last box.'

Peter sighed quietly as he placed the last of many boxes by the front door.

'There's my set of keys,' he said and left by the lamp two keys hanging on a cowboy hat key chain. 'Be careful who you give them to.' The attempt to brighten up the mood came rather left handed.

Jordan was sitting at the edge of the table, staring at his car parked outside. She could barely hold her composure. This was _her_ decision, her choice… no, their choice, but _her_ decision. Then why did she feel like she would break down any moment now? She did not have the heart to look at Peter while he was packing his stuff. Finally she turned around as she heard the sound of metal placed on polished wood.

Peter put hand on her shoulder and she leaned head towards it, trying to remember every second from this last touch of the world's most tender hand on her cheek.

'You wanted it, remember?'

'Yes.' Their eyes met. 'I still don't understand...'

'Jordy… '

'Why, Peter? Why did it have to end like this?'

'You couldn't take it any longer.'

'I thought we were…'

'So did I.'

She looked at him again. He caressed her and said:

'The paths we've taken are not even in the same direction.' He looked at a stack of papers on the table as he said that.

She glanced at them, too. 'For most of the time I thought we'd attend that interview together.'

'I gave up a lieutenancy, Jordy, I wouldn't have gone for the FBI either.'

'That's not what I meant.'

He smiled and took her head in his hands.

'Jordan, you deserve a man… a partner, who will remember your birthdays, who won't stand you up, and who won't storm out in the middle of the night to help a troubled teen out of yet another mess. You deserve someone who will put _you_ in first place.'

'What about you?' She feared that there was hardly a woman in the world that would voluntarily put up with what her now ex-boyfriend just described, and that was only the cherry on the cake. 'You deserve someone, too.'

'I deserve what I've asked for.'

He kissed her on the forehead and took his jacket.

'Good luck at the interview! I hope the Bureau is braced for the storm _Jordan_.'

They both smiled. At the door Peter turned one last time.

'Hey, blondie…' She looked at him annoyed; Peter knew very well how much she hated being called that. 'No regrets, ha?'

'No regrets.'

The door shut. Peter Caine headed one last time to the elevator of the building he had lived in for the past 6 years. What he left behind was a quiet half-empty flat, with a devastated young woman crying her heart out by the round table in the living room.

**XXX**


	2. Re-group, re-adjust

_1.5 years after 'Requiem'; June 5, 1998_

John Hobbs, heir and owner of _Hobbs & Gates Attorneys,_ had just arrived at The Willows. It was that part of town where no two houses were alike, and the monthly rentals usually had four digits. An elegant and unusually tall Chinese woman was waiting for him outside the house.

'I'm so sorry I'm late, Tara, the traffic was horrible!'

'Is the weather always that wet here in early June?'

'Well, every now and then. But we never let it spoil our good time; like you, as I can see.'

'Yes, I never let the climate stand between me and a nice cone of frozen yoghurt.'

She smiled and took a bit. Attorney Hobbs took a key out of his bag. 'Shall we?'

They entered through the gate and into a wide front yard. A tall hedge was surrounding the whole property, reaching almost as far as the second floor. The house was big, made of stone and dark-brown wood.

'I told you it looked like a mountain hut.'

'Yes…' The young woman was pleased. The place exceeded her expectations; positive energy was emanating from it. Tara found time to come to Sloanville only for a day. She just _had_ to check the property that the father she never knew had left her.

'Did you know the man who bought the house, Mr Hobbs?'

'No, I'm afraid. I've been a teenager when he left the documents for my father to keep. All I know is that he's been travelling round the country, that he bought the house on your name and that he left back for China after that.'

He gave her an envelope. The young woman handed him the ice cream and almost tore apart the sealed packaging.

'That's just the deed.' She was reading frantically. 'That's it? No name?'

'I'm sorry, Tara!'

She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. The air was sweet and fresh, and she loved it. 'I don't know what I was expecting… Hey, what's this, a map?'

The envelope contained a map with a complicated route drawn on it.

'Yes. You see, my father was a discrete man. He never dared ask why his clients did the things they did. He only sealed the envelopes and put them in his safe. And as far as your father is concerned, all mine got to know was that the man was travelling here from California.'

Tara nodded. 'Very well, that should do. Thank you very much, Mr Hobbs!' She stretched hand and looked at him with a stout air, straight in the eyes.

'Don't you want to look inside?'

'Not now, got a plane to catch; when I come back.' She added in her mind '_If_ I come back.'

After Mr Hobbs left, Tara looked at the area around her, the greenery and the broad street. Snacking on her dessert she decided to go for a walk. Interpol agents on their way to super-secret suicidal missions had the rare talent to enjoy every minute of the day. She loved Sloanville: beautiful, exciting, at a driving distance from the Niagara… If she ever got the chance, Tara would not mind spending her entire life here.

**X**

They say that time flies when you are busy; especially if it is something nice you are busy with. Peter Caine did not know how nice what he was doing was, but at least it made time fly. Sometimes a week would pass without him thinking about his… existence. He had made sure that the only time off he had would be for food and eventually sleep.

China Town had welcomed its newest resident with open arms. The 32-year-old Shaolin priest, that hunted criminals like a blood hound and seemed to have an answer for everything, was confident, wise and as stable as a rock. Anyone would turn to him for help: from problems with rebellious kids that would stay out past their curfew to loud neighbourly disputes – nothing seemed out of reach for Master Caine.

Oh, how little did they know…

To the outside world Peter Caine had become the worthy replacement of his father. Using his past connections and acquaintances he had opened a youth centre. There he was taking children from the streets, giving them shelter, sending them back to school, being there when they needed protection, or just a friend.

Two blocks away, on a street uphill, was the small martial arts academy Peter and Master Kahn had opened. It was a four storey building the last floor of which had been turned into two apartments – Peter's new accommodation, as well as Master Kahn's. The young Caine never moved in his father's place. He took care of it, and he welcomed people there. But bitter experience had taught him not to mix 'working' place with home. 'It brings too many bad vibes,' he joked once.

Anyway, whenever Peter was needed, there was always someone who knew where to find him.

**X**

The busy day that Peter had forged with blood and tears, literally, started at 5 am. He was doing his best to imitate at least faintly the routine students have at a Shaolin temple. He would go on the roof of his building and practice, no matter weather and season. Then he would go to the Centre. Ariel was living there and volunteers would come and go throughout the whole day. There were always a few people staying in, too: 16 year-old mothers, troubled wives and kids who did not find it healthy returning home at that particular moment.

Cheryl had moved in the building of Caine, right below his flat. She was now a proud college graduate, and was looking after the accountancy and other bureaucratic details of both the Centre and the Academy. The Centre was surviving on donations but the Academy had paid classes. It had to. The simple life Caine used to have was impossible for the world his son lived in, priest or not.

At about 11 am Peter had another training supervised by Lo Si, and after it they would spend some time together for lunch. This would often evolve into tours around the area, visiting sick or troubled people. Peter had learned a little about homeopathy and herbs but it was the Ancient who was doing the work. The young priest had found other means of healing – his hands.

After that night when he managed to heat a gun, Peter carefully and patiently explored this new talent of his and discovered that it could not only destroy, but also heal. He never spoke to his father about the incident, somehow assuming the sagacious Shambhala master knew about it.

After a tour with Lo Si Peter would return to the Centre, spend some time on school projects and basketball games, and then head towards the Academy for his classes. Those often had two-hour gaps between them, which Peter filled either with some ceremony at the Worship Hall in the centre of China Town, or with more training.

His casual evening trainings Peter called 'dual sparring' because he fought against Master Khan or Lo Si together with other advanced students from the community. They started doing it when it became clear that fights against Master Kahn alone had ceased to be particularly challenging to the young Shaolin. The day would finish with Peter dropping one last time at the Centre to make sure those who were to go home would do it, and that those who stayed in would be comfortably and safely nested.

Two or three times per week Peter liked to go on 'night walks'. Often they really _were_ mere walks, but in fact this was nothing else but a code name for a 'stakeout with Kermit'. The ex-mercenary had kept his promise to watch over Peter out in the streets. The warm friendship that was connecting them had proven life saving for the former detective, both mentally and physically, particularly in those first months after his father left, when the razor sharp Shaolin instincts were replaced by confusion and fear.

Those nights out Peter considered the funniest and most mentally relaxing part of the day. A couple of times he and Kermit even competed who would catch more junkies and pimps, and the one who lost was buying lunch the next day, or eventually drinks at De Lancey's. Kermit had started to resent that last bit. 'Proves too damaging to the contents of my wallet,' he complained one afternoon to Peter. 'I'll cut you some slack next time', was the immediate reply.

So a year and a half flew away. Peter stopped entirely contemplating on his personal life. There was nothing to contemplate on; he belonged to others now. Obsessed with his training and his new role in the community, he noticed neither the changes in his temper nor the remarkable advance of his skills; a situation which was bound to change very soon.

**XXX**


	3. Every Journey Begins with a Single Step

Every Journey Begins with a Single Step

Kermit arrived home at 3am. The night had not been the usual fun, and that bullet which licked his right ear totally ruined the mood. At least they caught all five members of the gang. Well, Peter did, Kermit only took the credit.

He was dreaming of the warm comfortable king size bed and those precious five hours of sleep that should suffice to get him through the next day. Instead of quiet home, however, he was welcomed by the screams of an upset toddler in the arms of an equally upset Karen Simms.

'What, she did not sleep again?'

'Nope, nor did I.' She looked at him with exhaustion. 'I had forgotten how draining this can be.'

'And rewarding, too, isn't it, mommy?' He smiled, took his glasses off and kissed her. That was right, Captain Simms did not regret a second for adopting little Christy, promptly named after the day when she found her.

Kermit headed to bed; after one last fight with Christy his lady joined him shortly. Only then did she notice the dried blood on his right ear.

'Are you all right?'

'Absolutely. Some sleep and I'll be like new.'

'Did you catch all of them at least?'

'Oh, yeah.'

**X**

The next day detective Griffin was planning to spend quietly behind his desk. He asked for a cup of Blake's famous coffee and entered his den. Ten seconds later he showed from the room and said gravely: 'Make it a double.'

One man was waiting in his office. Kermit sat behind his desk and the two only stared at each other until the coffee came. Kermit heard Simms's door shutting. She showed at his and before she even said anything Kermit replied: 'We're coming.'

Since Blaisdell's early retirement Kermit had spent few blissful years pretending his past never existed. John Thilden had come this morning to remind him of it. Twelve years ago he had saved Kermit's and Paul's lives and Kermit knew that pay day was due. The two joined Simms in the small meeting room where three other men were waiting for them. Kermit knew Bob Thorpe from CIA, also former mercenary, and John Goodwin from Interpol.

'Detective Griffin,' opened the Captain, 'agent Paul Moskowitz, Interpol. I believe you know agents Thorpe and Goodwin.'

After the formal part everyone sat and another moment of heavy silence fell upon them. Kermit was sitting comfortably, waiting for someone to make the first move.

'You're silent, Kermit,' said Thilden. 'Don't you want to know why we're here?'

'I'm waiting for you to tell me.' Even through his dark green glasses Kermit's gaze could be piercing.

Moskowitz did not know anybody in the room apart from Goodwin so he felt it was his task to fill in Kermit and the captain.

'Have you heard of Thomas 'rip' Ketonna?'

'Vaguely.' Simms was genuine in her answer. She knew a lot about the underworld but not about the underworld of other countries.

Kermit was still. 'Go on', he said.

Moskowitz threw a folder on the table.

'Be careful!' He said that so abruptly that startled both police officers who were just stretching for the folder. 'What's inside is not for the light hearted.'

'We're listening,' added Kermit in a slightly louder voice. Thilden was savouring the moment.

'To begin with, Ketonna is your average mob boss – drugs, prostitution, a bit of weapons and human trafficking, nothing out of the ordinary.'

'Oh, I'm feeling all better now.' Simms's irony did not seem to make much impression.

'Over the past 3 years Ketonna had been organizing a tournament, martial arts; attracting the best fighters in the world with huge money awards and tempting job offers.'

'So far so good.' Kermit was losing patience. He knew about Ketonna. He also knew that his nickname was spelled 'R.I.P.', and he knew why.

'The tournament is very tough, much higher level that the one of Li Sung,' added Goodwin.

'Li Sung?' Simms had not been there when Li Sung's tournament served as the basis to his subsequent arrest, but she was well aware of the important part her 101st played in bringing the thing about. 'What does he have to do with this?'

Thilden added: 'We found traces from past transactions between the two. We believe Ketonna's tournament is a spin-off of Li Sung's, only far more… gory.'

Goodwin continued. 'We know of many great international champions who have tried their luck there and come back failed.'

'And those who did _not_ fail?'

'We don't know, detective. They never came back to tell about it.'

Kermit and Simms shared a puzzled look.

'You mean he's killing them? It makes no sense.' The captain was also getting impatient.

'He is not killing them, captain.' There was something pervert in the way Thilden was enjoying this. 'He's just not letting them go.'

'That's the point.' This was the first time agent Bob Thorpe spoke. 'Ketonna is up to something and he needs the best trained fighters he can get to achieve it. He's been planning this for the last 5 years. Quietly. Patiently. He even reduced his usual drug dealing routine and pulled at least 50 men off the streets of Mexico and Texas to concentrate on the tournament.'

'Guys, I still don't get it...'

'He's got an island, not far from Veracruz. A very small one. The preliminaries for the next tournament have already started. We suspect it's going to be the last one.'

'John, speak straight.'

'Open the folder, Kermit.'

Griffin carefully turned the first page. Inside he saw a stack of pictures. It took time to make sense out of them. One included a cut head, another – a dismembered body, a third – only a wrist.

'Did you get that from the diary of Jack the Ripper?'

'_This_ is what we got left from the agents we had sent.' Moskowitz was sweating. 'The only thing we found out was that Ketonna is keeping his personal mercenaries as some sort of prisoners. He's not simply paying them once in a while, officers, he has their families as hostages.'

'The last thing…,' Thorpe's voice was trembling. '…The last thing our very last agent, Matthews, sent, were data about the next tournament, location and a few names. All the names are families whose children and grand-children had gone to Mexico and never returned. One of them, a family from Baltimore, had heard from their son just once, six months after his disappearance, and two days later their younger daughter got run over by a car. Twice.'

Kermit was expressionless.

'Remember that attack over a small town in South Africa? By some coincidence the eldest son of the prime minister was living there. Elder people killed, girls of rich families kidnapped, boys missing… Ketonna's men.'

'So, you're telling me, that this psycho is forming a personal army that would do anything they are ordered to do...

'…to protect their families…' Simms looked at Kermit. 'He may become invincible. This man has to be stopped!'

'He can have the world's most powerful countries in check mate by starting wars in whichever part of the globe he chooses.' Thilden said that only to Kermit.

'There comes the next question: what has that got to do with me and the precinct?'

**X**

The day started slow. Also Peter was left with a bitter feeling after the last night. He had not been concentrated and that almost cost Kermit's life. In the morning he barely got up; he was feeling heavy.

The early morning air was fresh and humid. Peter looked the city from the roof, his city. For some reason Ping Hai, twenty years ago, had decided to send him here, thousands of miles from their ruined temple, to an orphanage in the outskirts of this very city. Ping Hai… Peter startled. There was one last bit of rage from the past he had left unhandled, and he had to act on it soon.

He sensed warm wind. 'Something is happening,' he thought. 'Something is altering…' He did not know what was that he was feeling yet. He did not have enough experience to read the signs his senses were sending him. That morning the young priest barely managed half an hour practice.

At about 11:15 Peter was on the ground floor of the Academy.

'Go for it,' said Peter loudly.

'Peter, I don't think you are ready...' Master Kahn was genuinely anxious about the experiment Peter was about to attempt.

'It doesn't matter' interfered Lo Si and grabbed a spear. 'There is only one way Peter will find the answers he seeks: by searching'. Somehow Peter felt that those words had nothing to do with the training.

Lo Si was standing at the other end of the room. Peter channelled his energy; for the first time in the last 24 hours he was concentrated. Master Khan obeyed and stood next to Lo Si holding another spear. Peter was staring into the nothing above them, half naked. He nodded at them and prepared for his bare chest to welcome the sharp spears. Lo Si approached and stabbed the soft part below the ribs. Peter made no hint of pain or any other disturbance. There was no blood, not even mark on his skin. Lo Si kept pushing and shouted something in Chinese which was the sign for Master Kahn to join. Now both masters were trying to stab Peter with spears which would otherwise kill any living thing they touched. A sudden snap ended the experiment. The body of one of the spears broke, the other had just cracked. Peter relaxed.

He was feeling proud; it had taken him only four months to master the Iron Shirt. His periphery sight noticed the amazement of Master Kahn but when he found the same expression with Lo Si it almost ruined the moment. It does not happen often that one manages to catch off guard a Shambhala master. Lo Si's look was more of surprise, actually. It was true that even _he_ did not expect that the young Caine will progress this fast. Peter's initial feeling of content quickly made place to frustration. He said quietly,

'Good that we didn't waste both spears. I will see that we have this one fixed.' He picked the broken spear and went to put something on. He completely misunderstood the reaction of his tutors. Had he turned in that same moment he would have noticed the proud looks they shared and the content smile on the Ancient's face. Instead, his wrong perception only made place for more doubt. Peter promised himself to train an extra one hour before going to bed.

The young master was putting his t-shirt on when the door opened, and a middle-aged Afro-American woman entered. She looked anxious and confused. Peter approached her.

'Good morning, may I help?'

'Hello. I'm looking for Master Caine? I was told I'll find him here.'

'You found him.' Peter smiled. He badly needed a reason to smile today.

The woman looked with some doubt.

'Aren't you too young?'

'I look young for my age.' Peter had grown tired of explaining to people that he is the son of the Caine they were looking for and that _he_ too would probably be able to help.

'No, I'm sorry, I was told to look for a man much older than you.'

'He's out of the country. I'm his temp.'

'So you're the cop, Peter Caine?' She suddenly looked so brightened up that it almost broke Peter's heart to tell her about the new state of affairs.

'I'm a priest now, like my father. But please, tell me what I can do for you. Come in.'

He welcomed her and offered freshly boiled tea. It was his personal blend, and he used every moment to show it off. They sat by the little dao garden in the right side of the room. Lo Si had positioned himself in a distance by one column so he could overhear. Peter took notice of it but did not mind.

'My name is Chandra Hudson. I believe several years ago you have met my son, Jake?'

Peter livened up. Of course he remembered Jake. That talented young martial artist who appeared only months after Peter had been reunited with his father. He also remembered the poisonous jealousy that plagued him.

'Jake? Of course I remember him, a remarkable fighter. How is he?'

'I don't know.'

Peter took a serious expression. 'Has he been missing?'

'Missing, yes, you can say that.'

She continued. 'About less than two years ago Jake left for Mexico. There was this huge martial arts tournament. It had big money premiums, all inclusive for the participants, everything seemed great.'

Peter smiled faintly.

'Mr Caine, I know you perhaps disapprove of such competitions but we were on the brink of survival. Jake had to save for months to pay for the plane tickets.'

'Mrs Hudson, it's not my business to judge other people's choices,'said Peter calmly.

The woman sighed and continued, visibly more relaxed.

'Well, that's pretty much all I've got to say. He left and never returned.'

Peter was about to say something but stopped. In such situations the Cop Peter always rushed to speak before the Priest Peter. This time the Priest was faster.

'I heard from him two weeks later. He called and said 'Mom, I won the 3rd place, mom, I'm coming home with $15 000.' And I haven't heard anything from him ever since.'

Fifteen thousand… for a third place? There was something very wrong here.

'Have you reported him missing?'

'Yes, I did, several times. They investigated for a while, then one day a detective called and said they were closing the case due to lack of evidence.'

'I'm sorry about that.' Inexplicably to him Peter felt the need to apologise. 'What makes you think he is still in Mexico?'

'Well… I'm guessing… Have I said that I think he's still in Mexico?'

Peter paused. No, she did not say that. Then how did he know?...

'H-have you learned anything at all?'

'All the police told me was that he's been registered for leaving the country but he never came back in, nor has he left Mexico.' She opened her purse and handed him a cheque for $5000. 'I'm receiving one every two months on the same date. They are always from different banks. The police were not able, or not willing if you ask me, to trace them.'

The smell of fish was growing. 'Mrs Hudson, I am really sorry about all this but I'm afraid there's very little I can do. I could probably have the case re-opened, but…'

'I saw posters.' Her voice was trembling. 'A new t-tournament is coming. W-what if others go and also never come back? I met few mothers, you know, during those horrible months. They had also sent there their children and never got them back.'

'Mrs Hudson … _this_ is really way beyond my reach….'

A tear came down her eye.

'I am really _really_ sorry!'

There were several reasons why Peter refused to help. A martial arts tournament with suspiciously high awards, untraceable cheques, fighters who go and never return… The Cop Peter knew how easy cheques can be tracked. He also knew that if a cheque appears to lead nowhere it was a case for the Feds, minimum. Every bit of his being was telling him that something big was going on here, and he did not see how he, a single man, could make any difference.

The woman rose from her seat. She looked devastated. She leaned towards the wall. Chandra Hudson had just lost the last bit of hope of ever seeing her son again. She took a step and turned towards Peter who could not find the courage to look her in the eyes.

'I understand... Mr Caine, from the bottom of my heart I wish that you never have to face a loss like this.'

Peter froze with his eyes wide opened.

'It's unbearable, …devastating... You feel like you want to die but all you do is watch yourself being shred to pieces, bit by bit. You don't know how, why you should keep on going at all… It kills something that has been a part of you, a living, breathing part, that you can never replace.'

That did it. Peter rose from his seat and approached her. 'OK, I'll do it.'

The woman startled and looked at him with mouth half open. Peter took her arms and said: 'I will do what is needed. I'll go there and I'll do my best to bring him back to you. No mother should be separated from her child.'

He smiled softly and saw that glimpse of hope rising back in the mother's eyes. Chandra jumped and hugged him so strong that he could not breathe for a moment.

'Oh, my God, thank you! Thank you! Thank you so much!'

As she relaxed, Mrs Hudson opened her purse and gave Peter the $5000 cheque.

'Uhm, that's not necessary…'

'It's for the plane tickets. Please?'

Finally he consented. Jake's mother was acting almost like a little girl. She quickly leapt and kissed him on the cheek. It was worth agreeing to help her just to see the pure joy in her eyes.

After the woman had left, Peter turned just in time to see the Ancient leaving too.

'Lo Si… Lo Si, wait, I need to talk to you…'

'Later, Peter. You have things to do now. And you have to meditate, too.'

Ah, his meditations. Peter felt rejuvenated. Even though he had already agreed to go for this, he needed some advice, any advice. A meditation should suffice. He had some time before going to the Centre, so he left the reception room. Master Kahn was just coming from lunch to prepare for the afternoon classes. Peter asked him to take over his early classes today and went up his flat. It was time for a meeting with Pop.

**XXX**


	4. It Is Written

It Is Written

Kermit was leaning on his chair. Only 30 minutes have they been in this room and it felt like hours. He closed his eyes and tried to day-dream. Right now the detective was endlessly grateful for his dark green glasses. He leaned his head back as he spoke.

'Why me, John? Why-the hell-me?'

He stared at Thilden abruptly.

'Kermit, most of my connections are either dead, or in mental institutions.'

'Blaisdell isn't.'

'It was he who forwarded me to you.'

'What?'

'Three years ago before he retired I went to see him. He spoke of his post-mercenary life, of you, of some _extraordinary_ people he had met. He also said that if I ever needed help, I could turn to you.'

'You assumed that I know those _extraordinary_ people as well?'

'C'mon, Kermit, Blaisedll took you under his wing as soon as you entered the business. It would be shocking if he knew about someone you don't!'

'But why _me_?'

'Perhaps you're not the only one I can turn to, but you're the only one I would trust with my life.'

Kermit looked like he took no notice of that last compliment.

'We've ran out of options, Kermit, out of men! This is our last chance.'

'So, let me see if I get this straight. You want me to find a fighter, no, no, an _exceptional_ fighter, skilled enough to go under cover in no man's land, stand against some of the world's greatest martial artists and go as far as the tournament finals, and who on top of that is sufficiently mad to sign willingly in for an almost certain death?'

As she heard that, Simms got the goosebumps. Both she and Kermit knew just the man that fitted the description perfectly.

'We're paying loads of money, Kermit,' said Moskowitz.

'Yes, so is Ketonna.'

Silence reigned again. Kermit was knocking with fingers on the table. At last he stopped and an evil grin illuminated his face.

'Very well. Let us assume, just assume, that I can provide the mission with the right person.'

Karen looked him in horror but he pretended he did not see a thing.

'I have one condition.'

'Oh, no,' sighed Thorpe and massaged his eyes. 'How much?'

'You are insulting me, Bob. I don't want money. I want only power.'

Everyone stared so intently that the silence could be cut with knife.

'I lead the mission.'

At that moment the others were almost ready to attack him physically. Kermit continued with self-composure that even Caine would admire.

'I will take all decisions. I will coordinate every step. _I_ will decide when the final push is going to be.'

'Who do you think you are?' Now Moskowitz was losing his self-composure.

'The man on whom two major anti-crime agencies have come to count on for bringing about an operation for millions, if not more.'

Check and mate. Kermit was playing the game like a Grand-Master.

'Besides, gentlemen, from what I read, none of you has a say as far as the actual mission goes.'

'That's right.' Thilden had consented. 'General C. W. Woodword from Interpol will be your point of contact.'

'Thilden!' Both Thorpe and Moskowitz were outraged. They had come here to make sure everything goes according to plan, and now they found themselves being nothing more than puppets in a game with former mercenaries. Until that point Goodwin had only observed in silence. It was his duty to mediate peace.

'Gentlemen, I suggest we leave detective Griffin do what he will. If we have even the slightest chance of getting Ketonna, we'll use it.' He rose and took a sip from his now cold coffee. 'Now, if you excuse me, I have few phone calls to make.'

Grunting, the other two men followed and Simms accompanied them. Only Kermit and Thilden remained in the room.

'OK, Kermit, so be it. Just give me the details of your guy and we'll be on our way.'

Kermit looked genuinely surprised.

'Details? What details?.. John, you don't really think I'll be giving you ID, do you?'

'Of course I do. I need to rapport.'

'And I need to keep one civilian alive.'

'You're sending a civilian?'

'Yes. But hey, we don't know that yet, the person may refuse.'

'Kermit, I need to know the identity of the man you're sending!'

'Who said it's a man?'

'A woman?!'

'No gender, John, no eye colour, no name. Come on John, quit playing games. We both know there's a mole here, and I bet money he was in that very room.'

Kermit could sound quite scary when he wanted.

Thilden sighed and smiled bluntly. 'I know. We do have a traitor. But it's not me, Kermit.'

'I prefer to trust no one but myself for now.'

'Fair enough. When do you plan to leave?'

'Leave for where? I've got work to do here. My captain wouldn't do without me for long.'

'But you just requested to lead the operation!'

'And I will, from here! Don't worry, I'll go down there, but when time comes, on my own accord. I've no taste in watching mindless fighting between gladiators.'

Thilden gave Kermit an examining look and left the room. The detective headed straight to his place. Passing by Simms's office he paused. She approached him, pretended to be giving him a file from a recent case and hissed quietly into his ear, 'Should something happen to him, I'll never see your face again!'

**X**

Peter sat in front of the couch. They had simply divided the top floor in two equal halves, and Peter never cared to put walls in his part, allowing himself to live in a broad 'L' shaped studio. Upon entering the apartment one was faced with a kitchen, switching to a sitting room and finally a bedroom in the other end. He had huge window right in front of the couch, one in the corner by the big round table, then a couple by the bed. Peter loved light and wanted to have as much of it as possible.

Surprisingly even to him he had no TV. With his new schedule he did not have time to watch anyway. That is why the flat's only couch was positioned in front of the top-to-bottom window. 'What better show than life itself' he had thought. What indeed. Peter was living on the top floor and making the most of it. His only touch to the media now was during those Sundays he would meet with the guys at Broderick's or Blake's for a round of poker.

He had placed in front of the couch a lovely Persian rug, present from an emigrant woman he helped one year ago. There were many candles placed all over the flat. It was not due to his father's influence; Peter just had come to find the company of candle flames calming and way more _alive_ than the cold electric light. Chinese paintings were hanging on the walls; he had also brought a few tall plants that the Ancient gave him.

Now Peter was sitting with his side to the window. He closed eyes and stopped the flow of thoughts. He centred and felt the powers of Earth pulling him down. It awoke the familiar feeling of another pair of eyes closing, and it felt completely dark around him, even though it was about noon. Then the priest felt he was going down, like falling in an empty lift-shaft….

Peter took a deep breath and looked around. Black rocks were surrounding him; a mountain with a giant hole in the middle was proudly standing in front of him. A calm, gentle voice came from behind.

'A volcano? That is something new, though not completely unexpected from you.'

'I got tired of meeting in the Suzhou gardens. Next time you can pick the place.'

'I do not mind Krakatoa, really.' Caine smiled. 'Besides, transcendental observation is the safest way to admire this close nature's beauty and anger dancing together in such a brilliant perfection.'

The crater was steaming. It was true that each time father and son 'met' it was in the serene surroundings of Chinese gardens or mountains. Now Peter had felt like changing the scenery, completely oblivious to the fact that the choice of these imaginary locations was not due to his conscious thought, but a pure reflection of the state of his heart.

'Pop, I need to talk to you. I don't know if it's advice I need or just... just to talk.' Peter looked at his father.

'All right. But I do need to tell you something, as well.' Peter's heart skipped a beat. 'Please, my son, you go first.'

Peter sighed. 'OK, here's the thing.' He took a deep breath and sighed even louder. 'Do you remember Jake Hudson, your disciple?'

'Of course, a fine young man, a remarkable and talented fighter.'

Peter tried not to pay attention to the hint of jealousy creeping back in. 'He's in trouble, in danger. There's this big tournament, and its host apparently likes to keep the best of the fighters to himself. Jake's mother came to me and begged my help… Y-your help, actually, but as you are not here I was the next best thing.'

Caine stared intently. What he felt was a hint of blame, and he knew it was not long before the volcano erupted.

'I'm going there, pop. I have to.'

'My son,' Caine sighed too and stared at the crater, 'I like to say that there is nothing you _must_ do.'

Peter reproached himself for the wrong choice of vocabulary. Of course, no _must_-s.

'But not this time.' Peter turned abruptly, and his father returned the look. He seemed sad and unusually serious. 'Peter, it is important,' he raised his voice, 'it is_vital_ that you went to Mexico. You must! You must go there, my son.'

'W-wait, how did you know it's…' He paused and reproached himself again. 'Why do I keep asking?..'

'You must!'

Peter felt like in the day his father told him he must be ready to give his life for a teenage boy that was preparing to ascend the imaginary throne of China.

'Pop, there's something big going on here and I fear I alone am not enough to bring this ship to safe waters. You do realize that if I go there I may never return?'

His father closed eyes, and Peter sensed a subtle change in his chi. 'I do. But I can remember at least hundred equally dangerous cases when such thoughts never stopped you from doing your job.' The irony of his voice made Peter smile, but his mood changed quickly, like he remembered something.

He pulled his sleeves and said with a cold voice: 'That was before I got these,' hinting at his brands.

The hint of blame was no longer a hint.

'I know it's not my business to know, maybe I'm not ready to know, and it makes no sense of me asking, but I still got to give it a try… Why, pop? Why is it that you are gladly giving me your blessing to enter a tiger's den that has no apparent way out?'

His father was preparing to reply when Peter continued. 'I guess we both have changed. I'm more considerate for dangers and you're more willing for me to get into them. The irony of it all, ha?' He gave his father a questioning look, his eye brows lying low above the eyes.

The ground trembled. Now grey ash was coming out of the fiery mountain's giant dark body.

'If you do not go,' Caine was trying to postpone the eruption as long as he could. 'If you do not go, what is meant to be will never be.'

'But of course, meant to be…'

'Peter, listen to me. … There are great many people whose lives depend on you. Many destinies are in your hands, my dearest child.'

Peter was trying to follow the flow of thoughts but he could not take his mind off the fact that his father had never called him _my dearest child _before.

'What's that supposed to mean?'

'Just like the white ball in a game of pool sends all other balls to their places, your going to Mexico will send other people's lives in the direction they are supposed to go.'

'How?!'

'Look at it as a crossroad. Too many paths cross there. They need the push of the white ball to continue their way, the one that is meant for them.'

'I'm the white ball…'

'Yes.' Caine paused.

'If you do not go, they will be lost forever. What is written, most or all of it, will not be fulfilled, and great disharmony will reign for a long time.'

'But not forever…'

'No. When we stray from our paths, a wrinkle in time and space is formed. Like a rubber band it winds and winds but eventually it gets back to its original state, to its path.'

'Like our 'wrinkle'. It took 15 years to wind back.'

'Exactly!'

'I guess you won't tell me anymore?'

'I cannot. Any further knowledge on your side may interfere with the decisions you will make in the future…'

'…thus altering that future. I understand.' Peter paused. The two men were staring at the mesmerizing volcano and the few tiny streams of lava already running down its crater. It was going to erupt any moment now.

'Pop?' Peter looked at his father. 'Do you know what happens? I mean to me. You d-do know, right, that's why you're OK with me going there?'

His father looked at him as if he was about to burst into tears. 'No, Peter, I do not. I have a very faint idea what is supposed to happen if you _do_ return, but I do not know if you _will_ return.'

'But you're a Shambhala master, you can see the future!'

'No.' Caine smiled gently. 'I can feel how one's chi will alter for some time ahead thus realising what is to come, but I cannot predict the future. I do not know what will happen in Mexico.'

Caine stretched his hand and caressed his son's face. He kept his warm palm in this way for quite a while, moving only his thumb up and down Peter's youthful skin. The two shared a look. Caine was agonising with the thought of losing his only child, and Peter was dreading the idea of bringing so much worry to the dearest person he had in this world.

The volcano had silenced. It was just steaming again, resembling the stillness of nature right before a storm hits.

**X**

Kermit shut and locked the door of his office. He joined his hands together and leaning face on them stared at the wall for a minute. His mind was working on several different levels. Connections were being made, memories called, plans started. The computer 'Kermit' was on a mercenary mode. The panic that was starting slowly to climb up his throat had been locked in the deepest corner of his heart. Suddenly he hit the table and picked the phone.

'Hello, George?'

'Wow, Griffin, it's been a while, you muppet.' A jolly voice was on the other side of the line.

'Yeah, I know, been busy. How early can we meet? I've got a small assignment for you.'

'Uh-oh, I know that voice. Mmm, how 'bout 11, the old hangout?'

'I'll see you there.'

Kermit closed. The plans were ready. He had picked a valuable lesson from Steadmann – always count on memory and memory only. He did not write down a word. A map was formed in his head, and Kermit already knew every step he had to make in order to stand at least some chance in coming out alive from this deadly game of chess.

His Queen, the strongest figure in the game, he had to use wisely; and then the King, the weakest and most important figure, the aim of the game, he had to take back home safe and sound. The tragedy was that on Kermit's chess board the roles of those two precious pieces kame down to the same person…

He picked the phone again.

**X**

Caine was sitting in the lotus position, resting arms on his knees. The volcano was a beautiful sight. Peter was still, lost in his thoughts. Just like his ancestor, Kwai Chang, he was not afraid of dying, but of failing.

'Well, that's it then….'

'Peter, you forget that I also need to speak with you.'

No, pop, I did not forget, I tried to avoid it. Whatever it is, I know it will bring me pain, can't we skip it?

'Peter?'

They say that it is the built up pressure that makes volcanoes erupt. It might take an awful lot of time to pile up, and the longer the time, the more severe the eruption._This_ volcano was in for an Armageddon.

'I'm here.' Having accepted the inevitable Peter looked saddened at his father. His eyes were begging for mercy.

Caine spoke. There was no mercy tonight.

'Peter …. You must know that those meetings we have had while meditating have been the solace of my days since I left.'

Peter gulped. So it was not going to be about his mother?... Good.

The crater hissed a tall pillar of steam mixed with dust. The ground shook.

'For me too, pop. Though I wish we had started doing them a bit earlier…'

'We started as soon as you got to need me.'

When I got to need him?! Peter looked at his father shocked. '_When…_ I got… to need you…?' He said those words so slowly as if his brain needed to hear them again in order to make sure they were real.

The mountain shook again; the volcano blew a massive cloud of dark-grey ash. Lightnings blinked through the ash cloud.

'Those times were very precious to me. They still are.' Caine pretended he did not hear Peter's words. 'But my son, like every circle in nature…'

'Pop…'

'….like every circle…'

'Pop, d-don't …'

'….every circle in...'

'..don't say it, pop, don't….'

In the end Caine had to raise his voice. 'Peter, you cannot call me anymore!'

The volcano grumbled again, with significantly more power than before.

Peter did not know what to feel: surprise, pain, anger?.. Here he would usually ask 'Why' but now he knew it was pointless. The young man looked at the volcano; then he looked at his forearms, and then at his father. The older man was staring intently at him and at that moment to Peter his father looked almost like a stranger.

'I know you do not understand, my son, but I have to do this.'

Peter did not utter a syllable. Caine waited another ten seconds, still no reaction.

'You have come to feel what I feel, and see what I see. For a while I would rather have you not seeing and feeling with me. That is why we must stop seeing each other… completely.'

Caine looked back, expecting a reaction, a word, anything at all. Only the volcano greeted him with another explosion and the first serious streams of lava coming out of its giant throat. The Old Master looked at his son and just then realised that Peter was looking through him, without blinking.

'Peter, stop!' Caine leaned to the side and made a brisk move with his hand. Peter was thrown back by an invisible force, rolled through his back and instinctively landed on his feet, ready to welcome another attack.

'You don't let me in, then I'll break in.'

Caine looked amazed, alert, also prepared to welcome another attack. He had been able to 'observe' in a way the training of Peter during the last year. But he had not a clue that his son had grown so strong that he could nearly break through the thick labyrinth that hides a Shambhala master's complicated mind.

'What you're hiding?'

'Peter…'

'What are you hiding?'

'Silence!' This was the second time Caine had to raise his voice to attract his son's attention. 'It is for some time only.' Peter consented; he had to sit and listen. His father could have a pretty loud voice when he wanted to. 'The next time you see me, will be when I come back home.'

'When is that going to be? No, wait, let me guess, you do not know.'

'No, I do not.'

Peter nodded. The ground trembled and the real eruption finally began. Peter shook his head again, breathing heavily. 'So, that's it then? All right, so be it.'

'Peter…'

His father saw how Peter got up and turned his back on him. Caine had never felt guiltier before. His son deserved better than that; he had the right to be by his side, especially in that particular moment. Caine would have done everything to have Peter there, in France, with him. But he had to protect his child. Above all he _had_ to protect Peter, and then let it come what may. Moreover, right now Peter was much needed elsewhere. There was a higher cause the purpose of which the older Shaolin had to obey.

Peter turned to his father. 'Who are you?' Caine was not sure how to answer.

'Ever since I can remember, you've been keeping me away.'

'Why do you say this, my son?'

'You know, ever since you returned, when that chi rhu was stalking me, I've been wondering what my place in your life is. Am I just a burden you feel obliged you have to take care of?'

'Peter!..'

The young master approached. The mountain behind him was throwing lava and smoke, sky and earth were shaking, nearly killing his voice. Peter had to shout, but the noise from the erupting volcano was not the only reason for that. Man and nature's anger blended into a storm Caine would not be able to bear for long.

'You hide yourself from me like I'm your biggest enemy. Don't you trust me? Don't you think that I am able to change, to mature and become worthy of being at least your friend?'

'But you are!..'

Peter's lower lip was trembling. He was speaking with passion and anger but not in an aggressive manner as a he would a year ago.

'You came back because my life was in danger. I wanted to think that you've come back because of me but no, as far as I'm concerned my physical well-being is way more important than the spiritual. I had to thank a psyched killer for getting my father back four and a half years ago. Have you ever wondered what's happening in here?'

Peter pointed at his heart with both hands, his eyes were wet, and for a few seconds the only sound around was the thunder from the eruption.

'Have you ever asked yourself how it makes me feel when you shut me out like a stray dog that nobody needs? HAVE YOU?'

Caine turned his eyes from Peter. He did not have the power to face his son.

'I bet The Ancient knows why, doesn't he? Oh, he knows you, he knows _everything_ about you. While your only son has to beg for leftovers in a pathetic attempt to get to know who the hell his father is.'

'Peter, that is enough.'

Peter came closer and kneeled. 'Sometimes I wish you were like Blaisdell.' Caine glanced, his eyes drowning in pain. 'He also had his secrets but at least he was straight with me. He did everything in his power to keep me close to him; you did all you could to keep me at a distance… Do you still consider me so unworthy?'

Peter got up and moved away. 'Well, perhaps I did the wrong choice. I started visiting the only family I've ever had once in a blue moon because I thought I could get to know my real father in the meantime. What have I been thinking?'

Caine closed eyes, silently begging for his heart to be spared. But the words kept falling like sharp daggers. 'They want me to spend more time with them, you don't. They answer my questions, you don't. They want me in their life, pop. You don't.'

Peter ran fingers through his hair realising he had reached a point of no return. The right side of the crater exploded under the pressure of a pyroclastic eruption.

'Fine, go. At least now I know that I can stop trying so hard because I'll never be good enough. I'll never be worthy to be the son of Kwai Chang Caine. …Perhaps I've never been.'

Peter walked away and before the connection broke he turned one last time.

'You said _next time_. Don't bother. Live your life, be free, you have no obligations towards me. I'm leaving now, probably not coming back anyway, so who cares.'

The link broke. Caine remained alone.

The volcano was dying, its crater collapsing under its own weight. A single tear came down the old man's face.

His upbringing had made him the man he was. Kwai Chang Caine had always walked alone. For the greater part of his life he had had nobody to share with, so he learned to write everything on the charred pages of his soul. He learned that so well that when he finally got the chance he never let his only child come close and take away from his solitude. Now he paid the price.

Caine _was_ going to return home, sooner than Peter expected. He knew that he would have massive amends to make. But for now he had to concentrate on what he had started. Caine was going to need all of his skill to win this final battle… and hopefully, by bringing to him the greatest gift of all, he could make himself worthy to be the father of that extraordinary man his son had grown up to be.

**X**

Peter slowly opened eyes. He found that he was lying on his rug and that it was already dark outside. It could happen that he would fall asleep for a while after a round of transcendental meditation; after all, it was quite exhausting. But he had never slept for so long. The young Shaolin looked at his watch, six o'clock! He sat and tried to recollect what had just happened. Did he really meet his father? All this time he was never completely certain whether those 'meetings' were real, or just the result of his tormented soul's bitter desire to put an end, if even for an hour, to this damn loneliness.

It all started coming back to him now: their talk, his anger, his father's sadness.

'Oh, father…'

Peter buried head under his hands and began cradling back and forth.

'God, what did I do?' His eyes swelled with tears. 'Forgive me, father! Please, forgive me!'

Peter remained like that for a while. He still could not believe what he did. The young man thought he had become wiser and more in control of his emotions but obviously that was not the case. He had no idea of the tremendous amount of bitterness that had been piled in his heart, not until he poured it over the last man in the world he wanted to hurt.

Few minutes later Peter got up and looked outside; it was raining. The wet street reflected the lights from the passing cars and the buildings around. People were in a hurry to get home where they had somebody waiting for them, in warm well-lit houses, or perhaps apartments…

'Why did you leave me?'

Then he turned and looked at his apartment. It was dark and cold. Nobody would welcome him later that night; nobody would ask him how his day was. Nobody would miss him if he was not to return form his trip.

'The trip!'

It was time to return to reality. Now that his father had told him how important this journey would be, Peter was almost looking forward to it. He took his sack and started packing. Then he left that and sank into thoughts about all the arrangements he had to make before he left.

He had to make sure his classes were covered; then he was going to need some extra help for the Centre. Perhaps students from the University would like to help… Peter was walking around the room. Ticket, he needed to buy a ticket. He should get one-way, yes; he did not want get ahead of himself with a two-way ticket.

Peter decided he should better write down all he had to do. He meant to leave the next day if possible and there was just too much to be done. The young priest still could not comprehend how saving one man was going to affect the lives of 'great many people'. A sudden sharp pain ran through his heart when he remembered his father's words and everything that followed…

Then, with his periphery sight, Peter noticed the red gleaming light of the secretary. He quickly sobered up and went to hear his message. Even the ringing phone had not been able to wake him up. The voice on the other side sounded cold and demanding.

'Meet me eight o'clock, at a safe place.' This was urgent.

Peter thought he could continue packing later. He grabbed his jacket and left. There was a visit he had to pay before heading for the 'safe place'.

**X**

The room was filled with the smoke from the burning incense. And old man was praying in front of a small altar. From atop a statuette of blessing Buddha was overlooking him. Suddenly, amidst the harmony in the room, the man felt a light displacement of the air.

'You are getting better, faster and gentler.'

'D you mean my fighting, or my means of entering a room?'

Lo Si got up and grinned. 'Both.' The old man sat on the sofa and poured some tea. 'Would you like some? It is a new blend, very spicy.'

Peter did not say anything; he just sat on an armchair by the table and welcomed the offered cup. He took a sip and swallowed slowly, allowing himself to sense how the strong warm liquid spreads down his throat and the rest of the body. A long time had passed since Peter was getting dizzy from the Ancient's powerful teas. Now he was thriving on them.

'Lo Si, I'll need you to take some of my classes.'

'Only some?'

'Well, I was thinking to ask Master Kahn to take the other half…' Peter paused and looked at his old friend surprised. Then his complexion relaxed, he took another big sip and sank comfortably into the armchair. 'You know, don't you?'

'I know that you agreed to help a mother who has lost her child.'

The tone of Peter's voice rose. 'No, Lo Si, I meant that you _know_.' The young Shaolin stared at the older one intently.

'Yes, I do.' The Ancient was not as cheerful as when he welcomed his student. 'You do not wish to go?'

Peter hesitated. 'Not that I don't…'

'Some time ago you would have jumped to the roof with the idea of such an adventure.' Irony spread on Lo Si's face.

Peter remained serious, even a bit annoyed. 'I just don't like the idea of leaving my kids, that's all. They count on me.' He looked aside for a moment. 'I guess they'd be the only ones… who would miss me…'

The young man emptied his cup and added in a lively manner: 'But they are kids; kids adjust easy, don't they. They'll forget me soon…like everybody else…'

'You know that is not true, Peter.'

'No, Lo Si, actually I don't!' snapped he and looked down. The old man sat closer to Peter and caressed his back.

'Yet, this is a journey you must embark on. You must go there.'

'And if I don't?'

'Everything will go wrong.'

Peter shook head. 'Of course it will. Well, I'm looking forward to it.' He smiled with sadness in the eyes. In that moment he saw the Ancient taking a note out of his pocket; it had Chinese characters on it.

'There, take that.'

Along with all the training, Peter had mastered Chinese writing remarkably fast. His father was still there when he could recognise about 3000 out of the 4000 most commonly used Chinese characters. He took a brief look at the paper, and even if he could read the signs he had not a clue what they were saying. Peter just held the paper in his hand, put it on the table and stared ahead of him, expressionless. Interpreting the meaning of the note was not a priority at the moment.

'This is a list with some herbs that I believe grow in the place you're going. I would love for you to bring me of them, as much as you can.' Lo Si smiled.

'I like your positive attitude, Lo Si.'

'I am sure you will find some time to… hang around, check them out. I believe in you, Peter.'

Peter laughed. The Ancient had adapted to life in the big city much easier than his father.

'So, you think I'll come back, then?'

The old Shambhala master shrugged. 'You will either come back, or you will not. I'm giving you this list in case you do.'

'Fifty : fifty, ha?'

'Yes, fifty:fifty.' Lo Si kept the smile on his face but soon let it go. He had accepted. The old man knew it was time, and he was prepared. 'Peter, we speak of Mexico, but your thoughts are somewhere else.'

Peter turned to him abruptly. 'I've been meaning to talk to you about something. This morning you walked on me.'

'You were going to be late for you _meditation _then. We can talk now.'

Peter got an alarmingly serious expression. He looked at Lo Si severely; few seconds later he spoke.

'It's you, isn't it?'

Lo Si did not say anything; he kept his usual mystically-innocent expression.

'It's you… Ping Hai!'

The Ancient bowed. 'Yes, it's me.'

Ever since the trip to the First Temple a tiny worm began gnawing Peter's heart. Besides, Lo Si was keeping way too many relics from their burned temple, including the branding cauldron. Peter did everything in his power to suppress the curiosity, especially after his father left and Lo Si remained the only guiding light in his life. At the end Peter could not take it any longer. And on that evening, when he had to say 'good bye', possibly for the last time, he needed to know for sure.

Peter held his eyes tight and ran fingers through his hair. The Ancient wanted to console his protégée and tried to caress his shoulder but the young man pushed the wrinkled hand in disgust.

'Don't touch me!'

He quickly rose from his seat and walked around the room.

'Oh, God…'

Peter kept holding his head, massaging his forehead. He squatted, groaned, then got up, and then stood still and covered face with his hands. Lo Si thought the young Caine was crying but he was not. Peter collected his palms like he was praying and closed his eyes.

'God, I thought I was ready…'

'You can never be ready enough, Pet..'

'Silence!' Peter's voice rose only briefly, then he continued calmly and disturbingly quiet. 'You have already said more than enough!'

The young priest's mind flew back in time, twenty years ago.

Few days he had been unconscious, or just too weak to get up. They had placed him in a room at the back of the temple, in a part that had remained almost intact by the flames. It was only fragments he could remember. The only clear memory was that any time he would come to he would see Ping Hai's face leaning above him. When he could finally walk the old bastard took him to his father's mock grave and said all those lies straight in his eyes.

A shadow of fury ran through Peter's eyes. Right now nothing that the Ancient had done for him over the past five years mattered. To Peter Caine the old man sitting opposite represented the sole reason why his and his father's lives had become living hell for fifteen years.

'Tell me, Ping Hai, how old are you…'

'Old enough.'

'…to consider yourself god?'

Peter approached and kneeled by the table.

'Tell me, Ping Hai, how long did it take for you to decide the faith of two people, um, how long? How long did it take you to decide that you have the right to play god?'

'I did what was necessary, Peter.'

'But of course, _what was necessary_.' Peter got up and started walking around the room. 'Why do I even bother talking to you? It's no use, you won't tell me anything; I am unworthy of your sophisticated complicated talks. You Shambhala masters never…'

Suddenly Peter stopped shocked.

'When did you become Shambhala master, Ping Hai?'

'Long time ago.'

'Tell me, damn it! At least that you will tell me!' This time Peter was shouting.

'Fourty years ago, does that satisfy you?'

Peter's eyes got wet.

'You knew… You must have known… You knew, didn't ya? … Did you?'

Peter pushed the armchair away and landed on his knees right in front of the Ancient.

'All I knew was that something horrible was going to happen.'

'You owe me the truth, Ping Hai. You robbed me of my childhood; you took me away from my only parent. Now the least you can do is tell me the truth.'

The Ancient bowed.

'I perceived a nightmare three months before Tan attacked. I did not know what was that I saw, or when it was going to happen, though I already knew that something awful had to happen someday. The next morning I saw it again during meditation, but more clearly. I knew I could not prevent the burning of the temple, but I knew that both you and your father would remain unharmed.'

'Good, that is good. You see, it was not that difficult to talk, even if it's with the impatient, ignorant Peter.' Lo Si shook head in denial but Peter did not give him the chance to say anything. 'Now go on.'

'Afterwards I did what I had to do to make sure that you both lived.'

'How could you know what was that you had to do?'

'Peter…'

Peter put finger on Lo Si's mouth. 'You're paying an overdue debt, Lo… Ping Hai. The truth!'

'Tan would never have rested until both you and your father were dead. You were a cop, Peter, you can understand that.'

'Well, I can't. I understand that you had to spread the news of our subsequent deaths. But I don't understand why you had to separate us!'

'Because at that time your father did not possess the skill to protect you, Peter.'

'What are you talking about? My father is pretty good at protecting others.'

'He is now, but not then. His skills were honed during the years, but he was not the master he is now. Tan would have followed you wherever you went. Your father would have probably saved himself, but not you; you were too young. In any case, I knew that had you remained together, at least one of you would have been killed for real. I had to separate you so that the Caine line lives on, and so that your family may be together again one day. Believe me, young Caine, I _knew_.'

Peter closed eyes. 'You can see the future?'

'Shambhala masters cannot see the future; you should know that by now. What is _supposed_ to happen is projected in one's chi, but not what _is_ going to happen.'

Lo Si paused and stroke Peter's cheek. 'If I could see the future I would know whether you will return alive from Mexico.' Peter looked at his old master, this time more softly, with unconcealed love in his eyes.

Peter got up and turned his back, just in time for the Ancient to wipe the tear which had quickly managed to sneak down his stoic expression.

'But the chi also hides the key to one's destiny.'

'Oh, give me a break.' Peter was sick and tired with hearing prophetic Buddhist wisdom.

'Do not take it lightly, Peter. You were born under the Shaolin mark, and you know it. Down there, in front of the heated cauldron, you knew it was your destiny. You were born to ride with the tiger and the dragon.'

Peter did not know whether the last was a compliment to his character, or a criticism to what he had done so far as a priest. Least of all, the Ancient's words would have made awesome lyrics to a rock hit. … He tried to remain focused on the main issue.

'And to become a priest I had to live in an orphan's nightmare for fifteen years? My father had to live through the horror of losing his only child… for fifteen years?'

'You needed your father's guidance to become a priest, Peter. He had to be your teacher, the way you are going to be teacher to your son…' The Ancient paused abruptly, realising he had said too much.

Peter shook head confused. 'Lo Si, I do not have a son.' The young man spoke slowly, making sure that the older one will hear every word he said. 'I am leaving now, on a crusade to hell, I have no children, probably never will. Damn it, I don't even have a family!'

The young priest pressed his lips and took few steps back. Of course he had a family; he was just too angry and lonely to feel the presence of it.

'OK, let's go back. F-forget what I… w-what we both said. Why didn't you just keep me with you? You moved to this city anyway. Why did I have to travel all the way from Northern California to _Pineridge_ here in Sloanville, and with that strange monk who wasn't even from our temple?'

'The monk was my student. It was better to travel with him, too, than alone with some of the annoying social workers, was it not?'

'I guess. He was interesting… He… he was so much like my father.' Peter chuckled. 'And so much more talkative…' He smiled gently, remembering the journey to Sloanville. Those hours on the road were the only relatively pleasant time before the nightmare called _orphanage_ began.

'You have to understand that if I had kept you with me, you would have turned not quite the man you are now. Your anger would have consumed you, Peter. The dark side would have claimed you.'

'Dark side, dark side, what dark side? Come on…'

'Peter!' Lo Si never raised his voice, ever. Peter looked at him with wide open eyes, a bit frightened. Lo Si was breathing heavily. 'You have learned enough to know that there is a battle within each of us, good against evil, darkness against light…'

'…the yin and the yang…'

'Exactly! They exist in a fragile balance in the world, as well as within us. Every time we make a decision we are drawn to one of the two sides. When the temple was destroyed you were drawn to the darker side. I took care of your body, but I was not enough to heal your soul. You needed a stronger support.'

'A father's?'

'You needed love, the love of a family.'

Peter bent head; the Ancient was right. As a teenager he was going straight down the path of self-destruction before he found himself into the loving hands of the Blaisdells.

After a few moments of contemplation Peter looked up. He was standing right next to the altar with the small statue of the Buddha, which was staring straight into Peter's heart. The young priest approached Lo Si, and looked down at him.

'I don't understand how all of this had contributed to my… destiny. Perhaps, someday I'll understand…'

'…You will.'

'….but I…' He bit his tongue for a moment but then continued. His heart was swelled with pain; he could not hold it any longer. Peter was in full command of himself. He spoke slowly, quietly and with much bitterness.

'I don't understand how you could, without any remorse, separate a father and a son. I do not, I will _not_ understand how you saw no other way.' A tear ran down his cheek. 'We had no one but each other in this world. And then I found a family, for the first and probably last time in my life, I knew the warmth and protection of a family. But my father...'

Peter raised voice but had to swallow the last word, struggling with the welling tears.

'He has been alone, completely alone, all this time. With no home, no family, no friends. … I… will _never _forgive you for what you did to him… and to me.' Peter lifted hand, his body was shaking.

'Ever.'

It was over. Peter Caine did everything he could to hurt the Ancient. He did not know whether he had succeeded, but it mattered little now. Should he complete his mission and return home alive, only then would he bother with that.

Absently he took the list with herbs from the table and put it in his pocket. He did not leave Lo Si off his sight, not even for a moment. The look in the young man's eyes had not changed. The love he felt for the old master was still there, only now it was accompanied by regret. His whole being was screaming 'Forgive me!' but these feelings he had kept inside for twenty years; they had to be let go in the end. Peter took few steps backwards, then turned his back and glanced at the altar for a second. After that he continued towards the door and never looked at the Ancient again.

**X**

The rain had stopped. The traffic was not this busy at that time of day, shortly before 8 pm. Peter looked at the buildings around him. Many still had lights on, some were dark; it was a beautiful puzzle of yellow, orange and black spots. The yellow reminded of the people who were hiding inside the rooms, perhaps enjoying someone's company, or just working late. The dark ones reminded of emptiness, as well as of those lucky enough to have gone back to the warmth of their homes, with the smiles and voices of their loved ones.

Peter shivered, he was cold. It was much warmer when they had chosen this place for 'urgent' meetings. It was that same roof-top, from three years ago…

A second person's chi filled the place. 'You're late.'

'Mercenaries are never late. You're early.'

Peter looked at his watch, 7:50 pm.

'Whatever.'

He had come here straight from the Ancient's place. After their meeting he was feeling like a tree without roots; it was all the same to him where he was… physically.

Peter turned and gently patted Kermit on the shoulder. Suddenly it occurred to him that this late, wet meeting, whatever the occasion for it, would be his first pleasant experience for the day.

'You're cold?' Peter was shivering and just when Kermit was about to think he might be the world's first Shaolin to feel cold, he touched his hand. 'I can boil tea on your hand…'

'It's my heart that is frozen.'

'Oh, dear, what now? Your father? The Ancient?'

'Both.'

Kermit knew better than to ask questions, so he just took a file out of his black leather bag. The kid would share, eventually; he did not need to push it.

'And I just happen to have the thing to brighten up the mood.' Kermit paused. The reason for this unscheduled meeting did not fit even his dark sense of humour. He continued with more sombre voice.

'OK. So… I need your help. N-no, I mean… there's a p-place where they may need your help… Well…'

'You OK, Kermit?' Peter was trying to recollect when was the last time that Kermit Griffin had been lost in his words.

'It's just not the kind of thing I'd like you to mess with, Peter.'

'So you're telling me that someone needs my help, and in the same time that I shouldn't take the case?'

'Sort of. Well… It's my moral obligation to tell you about that. It seems like you're the right man for the operation.'

'Operation?'

'Yup.' Kermit blinked slowly. How could he tell Peter about a mad mob boss possibly planning to blackmail the world with a Third World War, and yet convince him not to take the job? He knew, God, he knew all too well that once asked for his help, a Shaolin priest was obliged to do it.

'Sounds serious. But when do you want me to _take over_?'

'As soon as you can. … But only if you can… You know, if you want…'

Peter smiled. It was obvious that Kermit was uneasy about something, and the young Shaolin was more than happy to relieve his friend with green glasses from the burden.

'Well, Kermi, nothing to worry about. Whatever it is, I can't take it.'

'You… Really?' Kermit was ready to do a happy dance.

'I'm already helping somebody, a mother whose son is missing. Actually I have to leave as soon as I can, most likely tomorrow.'

'Wow.' Kermit started collecting his file back in the bag. 'That was close.'

'You seem relieved, detective, but you are..' Peter stopped for a second, making sure that the emotions he was detecting were the correct ones. '…you are both relieved and anxious? Frightened, even… Kermi, what's wrong?'

'You know, you Shaolins can be extremely annoying sometimes.'

'Tell me about it.' They laughed. 'Was that something important?'

'As a matter of fact, yes. Of global importance, actually.'

'Global? How is it possible that something of global importance needs _me_?'

'Just… coincidence, my friend.'

'No such thing, Kermit.'

Kermit shrugged. 'Well, it doesn't matter now, does it?' Kermit got up. 'Hope you find the missing boy. Are you travelling outside the city?' Kermit took his bag and prepared to leave.

Peter chuckled. 'Outside the country, to be more accurate.'

Kermit froze. A missing son? Outside the country? Over the years Kermit Griffin had developed instincts that were virtually incapable of going wrong. Something, probably the experience from the past incredible five years, made him come back to his place, sit and even take off his glasses.

Peter observed the whole momentum with interest. Apparently his going outside the country had attracted Kermit's attention to such a degree that he took his glasses off. The times Peter had seen Kermit do that were even less than he had heard him stutter.

'What's with me going out of the country, it's not unusual… especially in _this_ family.'

'I just find it interesting… coincidence that my mission also included going abroad. That's it.'

It was Peter's turn to get nervous.

'Kermit… just for the record… Where exactly…'

'Mexico.'

Peter gave his friend a deep I-knew-it look. The past five years had taught him, too, that coincidences do not exist.

'Pete…' The ex-mercenary scratched his head. 'Where are you…'

'Mexico.'

The two men chuckled. Kermit shook head and stretched back for his file. 'What are the chances that we are _not_ on the same case?'

'Oh, great. But with our history… none?'

Peter shook head and sighed. Destiny. The white ball. What was meant to be… It was all coming to him now, as real as a punch in the face. Or in the heart.

'Do you believe in destiny, Kermit?'

'I might start to…'

'My father does.'

'I never doubted that.'

'He believes so much, that he willingly gave me his blessing about going down there. In fact he _insisted_ I went to Mexico.'

Kermit lifted an eyebrow. 'Does he have any idea that…'

'…that I may not be coming back? Oh, yes, of course.'

'I'm sure he has his reasons, Pete.'

'I'm sure, too. I'm just not sure I will ever be ready enough, or good enough, to hear them.'

Peter was looking at the buildings around him, completely unable to hide his disappointment.

'I'm simply that insignificant offspring of the Caine line that nobody finds worthy enough to share his secrets with.'

'I wonder who puts these thoughts into your head. Has the Ancient said something?'

'No, Kermit, he hasn't…' Peter realized raising voice was not helping anyone and continued in a calmer tone. 'All he did was to send me gladly off to Mexico.'

The young Caine did not find the time appropriate to bother Kermit with the most recent turn that his relationship with Lo Si had taken.

He sighed. 'Look, Kermi, I'm sorry, it's not the time to pester you with my personal insecurities.'

Kermit smiled and understandingly patted Peter's shoulder. 'We checked that off the issue list a year and a half ago. … And, for the record, _I_ find you more than worthy.'

Peter looked at his friend with gratitude. His first months as a priest have been nothing else but hell which would have destroyed him, had it not been for Kermit's faithful support and implicit belief in him.

'Thanks, buddy!'

Kermit took his folder out from the bag again.

'You achieved some pretty amazing things over the last months, kid, both as a priest and as a kung-fu master.'

'You're telling me what I want to hear?'

The former mercenary frowned. 'I'm not that benevolent. … And no, I'm just telling you facts which you _need_ to hear and which you're obviously not aware of.'

He handed Peter the folder. 'Now, shall we get back to work?'

Peter nodded and took the folder. 'Do you want to fill me in?' Peter gave the thick file a suspicious look. 'How… how did you even get involved with this?'

'I think I ought to ask you the same question…'

'Well, the story goes back to the first months when my father and I were reunited. He took a student, a very talented young martial artist, Jake Hudson. This morning his mother came to me desperate. Last year he left for Mexico, won the 3rd place in some tournament and never came back. Police didn't do anything; all she knows is that he hasn't left Mexico. Oh, and she is receiving…,' Peter took something out of his pocket, '… regularly cheques from him. That's how she knows he's still alive.'

'Pete, we're definitely on the same case.'

Peter was about to open the folder but his friend stopped him.

'Don't do that! This is your homework.'

'Are the contents so scary?'

'Let's say I don't recommend you to look at them in full stomach…'

When the Shaolin gave him an it's-your-turn-to-talk type of look, Kermit continued.

'It's an annual tournament held by a wacko named Thomas Ketonna. He's a former business ally of Li Sung; apparently his tournament copies Li Sung's, only with far more macabre intentions.'

'Meaning?'

'The first part of the competition takes place in a village by the coast, not far from Veracruz. Then the best ten or so continue to the finals, held on Ketonna's island. The best ones receive hefty money premiums and the right never to leave the island.'

'How come?'

'Ketonna traces their families and people they care for. If the fighters refuse to obey his orders, he eliminates members of their households until they change their mind.'

'I miss Li Sung…'

'Yeah, what happened to good ol' mafia bosses, ha,' shook head Kermit.

'What does he ask them to do?'

'Anything at all. By now he must have formed a small army. We think he wants to manipulate the UN and other organisations by threatening the peace in pretty much whichever part of the world he chooses.'

'So, I can't simply go, get Jake and get the hell out of there.'

'Nope. It's either going to be all of them…'

'… or none.'

Kermit nodded gravely and turned his sight from Peter. He felt like he was giving his last and closest friend a one-way ticket to Hell.

Peter got up and approached the edge of the rooftop. He could see clearly the city centre from there. Chinatown was to the left. City Hall was ahead of him. Further north he could distinguish the blue and red lights coming from the Falls. The young priest looked around him; he turned several times trying to memorize every sight, sound and smell of Sloanville. The city had so kindly welcomed him twenty years ago. It became his home and scene of some of the saddest, as well as some of the happiest moments in his life.

Now Peter had agreed to go on a no-coming-back mission, and there was no way out. As a priest, once agreeing to help he could not back down. He did not want to. Since little boy he had the urge to help and protect.

Peter Caine could never turn his back on someone in need and he was not going to do it now.

'Peter, are you OK?'

Peter went back to his seat.

'It feels like the end of an era.'

'Could be also the beginning…'

Peter curiously examined his friend. 'I think you've been spending too much time around Shaolins, Kermi.'

'You should have thought about that five years ago. It's too late for me now.'

The two men smiled.

'By the way, you are yet to tell how _you_ got into this, detective.'

'An old acquaintance came to collect past debts. They've ran out of options, or rather out of men.'

'What happened to those men?'

'In the folder you'll find photos of what is left of them. All undercover agents, from CIA or Interpol, all _un_covered within hours of their arrival.'

'I see. A mole?'

'Undoubtedly. That's why only you and I know that you're going South. And that's why I'm heading the mission.'

'Wow! How on earth did you achieve that?'

'Easy. I promised them a martial artist who can beat the best in the world and get to the finals.

Peter lifted an eye-brow. 'Pop is back?'

Kermit looked annoyed. 'Irony not appreciated.'

'Why me, Kermi?'

'Because, Pete, I saw you turn into a reincarnation of Bruce Lee with my own eyes. If anyone can do it, that's you, kid. Though…'

'What,' asked Peter with dry voice.

'You still have time to go home and forget about all this.'

'I've made a promise.'

Peter pulled his sleeve and revealed his forearm.

'Can't go home, got these.'

'There's something else. Ketonna doesn't like Shaolin priests.'

'Who does?'

'No, I mean he _really_ doesn't like them… to a point that he welcomes them with a bullet in the head.'

For a moment Peter was motionless.

'God!..Why?' He imagined men who have been through the exhausting Shaolin training, and who have earned the honour to brand, being rewarded for their skills with death.

'Nobody knows. But then, medicine has a term for people like Ketonna: fruitcakes.'

'So, how do I pass?'

'I have an idea. We'll talk about that tomorrow on the plane.'

'A plane?'

'Well, yes, we can't drive over there, can we? You have to be on the ring in less than 48 hours, or we'll miss the preliminaries.'

Peter felt fluttering in the stomach. It really was happening.

'You took care of that, too?'

'You know, in case you agreed to do it…'

Peter smiled. 'When are we leaving?'

'At about 3 pm.' Kermit looked Peter gravely. 'Pete, are you sure about this?'

'I just have to do it. My intuition tells me I'm going to find something beyond a bunch of martial artists squabbling over few thick cheques.'

The detective gulped. During the last year and a half Peter's intuition had established itself as a nearly separate entity.

'Well, welcome on board, Caine!'

Peter stretched his right arm. 'So, we're in this together?'

Kermit grasped the offered hand.

'Oh, yeah.'

**XXX**


	5. Farewell

Farewell

Peter left the rooftop at about 9:30 pm. He was carrying a satchel bag he did not have on his way in. The priest headed towards the youth centre. He had spent very little time there today, and the kids would probably be cranky.

It was pretty lively inside the old fire station. Children of all ages were spread in the main hall, most of them busy with homework for tomorrow. Peter was standing by the entrance, chatting with Ariel about how the day went. The moment they heard his voice the children each stopped their occupations and looked enthusiastic at him. Peter made them a sign to continue with whatever they were doing, and started walking around the writing desks and coaches scattered around the room. A tall boy approached.

'Hey!'

'Hello, there! How was math today?'

'Well…' The boy bent head.

'Rickston!.. How did it go?'

The boy lifted head back up with a broad smile shining on his face.

'I got an A, I got an A.'

'That's my boy.' Peter hi-fived him. 'I'm proud of you, you know that, Rick?'

'Wait until I graduate…'

'I'm still going to be proud, no matter what.'

Peter squeezed the boy's shoulder, and they went on walking. Rick Harding was Peter's biggest conversion yet. The seventeen-year old was the first kid to come in Peter's care, the same day he was let out from juvenile… where they had sent him after detective Peter Caine had arrested him eight months before that. At the age of fifteen the teen had a file the size of a master's thesis, including a rape attempt, drug dealing and two armed robberies. Two years later Ricky was considering prospective college applications, which could become real with the help of a sports scholarship he had been approved for a month ago. He secured it with an immensely hard work, many sleepless nights, Peter's unconditional support and last but not least, him becoming Rick's personal coach.

'How was the gang today?'

'It was good. Tommy and Frank fought again; Amanda went to the hospital, the baby was sick. Don't worry; he'll be OK, some fever. Also Hank tried to sneak to the training today… again. By the way we missed you.' Peter's heart ached with guilt. '…Oh, and Kirsten dropped by; she's better but she'll stay indoors one more week to clear up completely.'

'Is she at her grand-mother's?'

'Yeah, that's what she said.'

'OK, I'll have to go check on her tomorrow then.'

'Another thing… Mr Williams was looking for you.'

'Ariel told me.' The last thing Peter needed was another argument with his building's owner. The man had raised the rent for the Academy by 20%, and with the meagre income from the classes, this month Peter had barely managed to pay it, ten days overdue.

The priest sighed. 'Right. Look, I need to speak to all of you. Could you go upstairs and bring whoever is there?'

'Sure.' Rick looked worried. 'Everything OK, Pete?'

'It will be. Don't worry.' Peter winked at him and continued with his tour.

'Daisy, how was the history test?'

'B, sir.' A lovely twelve-year old girl with a deep scar above the left eye nodded at the priest.

Peter patted her on the shoulder and checked on her work; she was busy with algebra.

'That looks good. Uhm… finish the next problem and call it a day.' He skimmed quickly through the page. 'And check the solution of this one here, I think you're using the wrong formula.'

Amongst everything else, Peter's career change had required from him to revise his past knowledge on trigonometry and spelling; something that has been nearly as challenging as the actual career change.

Then Peter approached a thirteen-year old boy, sitting at the desk nearby. 'Rob, how's the presentation going?'

'I'm done, we'll rehearse it tomorrow.'

'Great.' Peter took a small pouch from his pocket. 'That's for your mom's headache. Two soup spoons per quarter of a littre, half littre a day.'

'Ditto. Thanks, Pete!'

Next was an eleven-year old boy with glasses. 'Sammy?' He was curled on a couch, reading 'Captain Nemo'. 'How was today at school?'

'T'was OK.'

'Sam, look at me.'

The boy lifted head, and Peter saw the broken frame of his glasses.

'They bothered you again?'

'They tried.' Sam grinned. 'This time I showed them.'

Peter crossed arms and gave the boy a questioning look.

'I did what you taught me; a few moves on one of them, and then I only shoved the other two. It worked.'

'Good, that's good.' Peter smiled. 'And the glasses?'

'He took them before I introduced him to my fist.'

The man bent slightly.

'Mr Chow down the road will fix them for you, see him tomorrow.' The boy nodded. 'And next time try not to hurt other kids. Kung-fu is for defense, not attack.'

Peter ruffled his young friend's hair; the boy giggled.

'Pete, everyone's here.'

Peter turned. Rick had gathered the gang in the main hall. They all knew Peter wanted to speak to them. The young Shaolin thanked Ricky and got up with heavy heart.

By the wall, not far from the stairs, there was an old writing desk. It was wide and way too tall to be used for writing by a pre-teen. They were storing all sorts of stationary and games in its draws, and nobody was ever using it.

The desk was present from Paul Blaisdell. His foster-son had perceived it as the material expression of Paul finally coming to terms with his new social status. Even though the former police captain had not yet been down to see any of Peter's services, or classes, Peter thought they had gone a long way re-discovering each other during the last year and a half. The ex-police detective handled the situation flawlessly. After all, he was a true pro in that whole 'father leaving/ father coming back' thing.

At the moment the thirteen-year old Tony Benzen was sitting on the desk. Peter sat next to him. This was a sign for everybody else to find a place, too, because Peter always sat on the old desk when he was going to speak to his kids. He was smiling but the sadness in his gaze suggested that something was wrong.

'So, guys… I… I'll try not keep you long, it's late anyway. Uhm… I thought I would speak to you now because it's the only time of day we all get together, at least most of us. And I want you to hear it from me, rather than from somebody else.'

'They're closing us down?'

'Nobody's closing us down, Sally. At least not if you keep sticking to the place…'

'We will!' Everyone answered readily, simultaneously, like under the command of an invisible conductor.

Peter smiled. He would leave believing that the children will not stop seeking shelter at the Centre just because he was not there.

'The thing is… there's a journey I must embark on.'

If at that moment if someone dropped a pin on the ground, they would probably hear it on the second floor.

'There are people who need my help, and I can't turn down a person in need.'

'When are you leaving?' asked Rick.

'Tomorrow.' Peter could nearly hear the sound from the breaking of many little hearts. 'I know it's very soon, but they only asked about my help today, and I have to leave as soon as possible.'

'Where are you going?' enquired Tony.

Good question. With the whole speech Peter had prepared, he had skipped the little detail of explaining _where_ exactly he was going.

Daisy snapped at the boy on the desk. 'He's a Shaolin, silly, he doesn't need to have a destination; right, Peter?'

Peter could not believe his ears. 'Did you learn that from me?'

'Yes.' That was another group response.'

'Daisy, you're right, I'm probably going to wander a bit…' Peter felt like the words were coming from someone else deep inside him. 'For now I'm heading for China.'

Why, the hell, China? How did I think of that? I'm not going to China!

'That's far.' Sam did not like it. 'You'll be gone long?'

'I don't know, Sammy.'

'You don't know?'

'Guys, I don't know everything. Really, I don't.'

He smiled. With everything he had taught them, Peter's gang could not believe that there was something Master Caine would not know.

Peter continued. 'As a priest I have sworn to help others. I would dishonour myself if I refuse. You don't want that, do you?'

'Are you going to forget us?'

'No, Tony, I won't!' Peter hugged the boy next to him. 'How did you even think about that?'

'But China is so far away… Besides, you're helping _us_.' In her life Daisy had already lost one father, and she would do anything not to lose another.

'Dais, I will always be helping you. But my help is not conditional; it belongs to anyone who needs it. It is yours as much as it's anybody else's…. in Chinatown, or China. It doesn't have expiration date, either. That's why I don't know how long it would be.'

'But you'll be back, right?' Even the tough Ricky could barely hold his tears.

'Of course I'll be back.'

The children were staring at him intently. They needed more reassurance.

'I promise! I give you my word, folks!' That seemed to do the trick; the kids knew that a priest's promise was a promise kept.

Tony leaned head on his guardian's shoulder. 'What are we going to do without you?'

Peter's heart almost burst with pain and compassion. 'Same thing you were doing until now, keep going. You've walked a long way, each one of you.'

'But what we did, we did it for you.' The boy, a former beggar with a disturbingly long experience as a pickpocket, gave his mentor a heart-breaking serene look.

'For me?!' Everyone looked at Peter, then turned guilty eyes from him, as if silently agreeing with Tony. 'Hey, hey, what do you mean 'for me'?'

'Well…,' the fourteen-year old former drug-addict Benjamin spoke, 'look at us, Pete. We've never had anyone as nice to us as you are. The least we could do is try to be good so that you keep us. Without you… nothing makes sense.'

Peter saw many pairs of wet eyes. His own were feeling pretty heavy already.

'Guys, I would not give up on you for anything in the world.' The wet eyes smiled. 'Taking your lives back on track is something you have to do for yourselves, not for me… or somebody else, for that matter.'

The kids looked like they had never thought it that way.

'In your lives, when you grow up and leave here… which will _inevitably happen_,' Peter sensed the children needed reminding of that last bit, 'you're going to find out that life may really ask from you to sacrifice something for someone, but guys, your lives belong to _you_. Nobody, myself or anybody else, has any claim on your lives.'

'…But you did so much for us…' Tony was looking at the floor; he did not want Master Caine to see the tears in his eyes and think of him as not man enough.

'Many people will do good things for you. And if they require a sacrifice on your side in return, you should know that their hearts are not pure, and that your wellbeing is not their priority.'

Peter paused and gave few seconds to his young audience to assimilate his words.

'You see… Imagine your lives as cars; and you're the drivers. You should look at me as nothing more but your driving instructor.'

A few faces smiled. For several of the kids Peter had already been driving instructor, quite literally.

'I will show you how to steer the wheel, how to keep your car on the road, how to maintain it. I might show you a few tricks to handle the car during stormy weather, too. But that's all I can do. You are the drivers, folks. You decide which roads to take your car on, and whether to drive slowly or fast. Should your car go out of the road, you can always count on instructor Caine to help you get back on track. But you decide which roads to take; there are thousands of them, and every single day is a crossroad.'

Peter paused again. His speech definitely had effect.

'It's your life, guys, your car. You're the captains, you're behind the wheel. You should never, _ever_, let anybody else take on that wheel. It's not God, or somebody else down here who's driving. It's _you_; and it always has to be you.'

The children felt invigorated. Peter definitely knew how to speak. Not that they were not convinced by now, but somehow this man always knew what to say in every particular moment, as if he could read their minds.

Peter got up from the desk and immediately a flock of boys and girls flanked him. They hugged him or let him hug them. The young priest even allowed a couple of tears drop from his eyes. He spent another half hour with his kids. He was going to take few of them home, others would be picked by relatives, and a few were sleeping at the Centre.

Cheryl and Ariel were slightly more emotional. Ariel simply would not let Peter go, and Cheryl was hiding behind her desk.

'So, where are you really going?'

'Let's assume China, shall we?'

At last Peter freed himself from Ariel's affectionate grip, assuring her he will be back, and approached Cheryl.

'I hate it, you know. You Shaolin priests always leave. Dammit. Or is it a Caine thing, leave those who care about you, and hit the road?'

Peter hugged her. He could not answer that question. Was it really a Caine thing? Few hours earlier he had unleashed all of his frustration on his father for abandoning him; now he was the one who was leaving.

In the meantime Rick had approached quietly, hoping for a personal good-bye. Peter put hand on the teen's shoulder.

'Will you watch over the gang while I'm gone?'

'You can count on me, Pete.'

Peter held the boy tighter for a few seconds. He was immensely proud of all of his kids, and he never got tired of repeating it to them. He had not been good enough, obviously, to make the people he cared for proud, so he was generously giving others what was denied to him.

At the entrance of the building the young Shaolin spoke for one last time to his gang.

'I know you have many questions. I do, too. … Every day I ask myself whether a year and a half ago I did the right thing; … and every day you, guys, give me the proof that my choice was correct.'

Peter smiled and bowed, greeting them with the fist and the palm of Shaolin. Everybody responded. Afterwards the priest turned and left.

**X**

The house was quiet. The couple was in the living room, sitting in their armchairs, watching TV and talking.

'When did he come back?' A man entered a black Mercedes parked not far from the house.

'At about six, straight from work.'

'Has he been out afterwards?'

'I would have reported if he has, darn it.' The other man was nervous. The last two millions were not in his account yet, and they might never get there, because some ambitious police officer had decided to play 'March and Conquer' with them.

'Well, apparently his guy has already left.'

'When? How…'

'Today. Should be on the ring this evening or tomorrow latest.'

'Did you warn Ketonna?'

'Of course I did, that Hampton's mansion is not for free, you know.'

They turned eyes back to the house.

'Does he ever take those glasses off?'

'Only in bed.'

The men giggled and kept watching. Inside the house the woman got up from her place and took a toddler in her arms. The little girl was smiling and stretching tiny hands towards the darkness while her mother, sitting back in the couch, was trying to appease her.

'For heaven's sake, calm her down.'

'Dadda, dadda.'

The girl looked down. The man of the family seemingly leaned towards her and caressed her but what he really did was to serve as the cover for a second man, who was kneeling in front of the woman and kissing the girl. Then he moved away from the chair, keeping low enough not to be seen from the outside. He stood in the shadows of the unlit part of the room.

'How was the day?'

'It was OK, I think I can manage.'

'I was hoping you'd say that.'

'What do I say at the precinct?'

'It's taken care of,' said the woman. She got up and headed towards the kids' room. The two men remained alone.

'What's that mark on your chin?'

'Driving accident.'

'Idiot.'

'I'm an actor, not a racing driver.'

'You've got make-up, cover it.'

'What about _your_ mark.'

The man in the shadows touched his ear unnerved. 'Scratch from a bullet; hope you're not out of red colour...'

'Will do.'

'Good. I'm leaving now. You know what to do.'

'Like in the good old days, right pal? Heh… And you may be right, life _is_ better green.' The man in the couch touched his brand new pair of dark-green glasses.

'It is.' The standing man then kneeled and whispered. 'If you ever even attempt to touch her, I'll have to kill you; I hope you know that.'

'You really don't trust anyone, do you?'

'That's what keeps me alive.'

'True that.'

The man stood up again and headed towards the kids' room; by the hallway he turned.

'And George… thank you!'

The man in the couch nodded. The standing man entered a small room decorated in pink and yellow. The lady of the house was leaning over the cot, unsuccessfully trying to hide her emerging tears. She had only the bed lamp on, so he could approach her without the danger of being seen from the outside.

'Why do I have the feeling that this time you won't return?'

'I always return.'

'And if you don't?

'You move on.'

She turned the light off, went close to him and hid face in his arms.

'I love you!'

The man kissed her.

'I love you, too!'

'Please, come back! Both of you!'

He smiled and tenderly caressed her face with fingertips.

Then he put his glasses back on, picked a traveling sack that was waiting by the door and disappeared into the darkness.

**X**

A Shaolin priest's day starts early, even if that priest has to leave on a life-changing, or rather life-ending, journey.

There were few more errands Peter had to run before his departure. He had arranged his replacements at the Academy; he was going to meet with few students at 10 am, to see if they would agree to volunteer in the Centre while he was away.

He had to see also Kirsten. The sixteen-year old girl had come in his care four months ago. All was well until her ex-boyfriend dropped by, and the girl was found in an alley with an over-dose of cocaine in the blood. She survived but Peter did not rest until the responsible got what he deserved – a long stay behind bars and some very serious beating.

Now it was time for his morning practice. It was going to be indoors this time, on the third floor of the Academy. Master Kahn was there, standing in the far end of the room. He was holding three knives. Peter was in the opposite end. His eyes were closed; he was concentrated. Peter opened eyes and nodded.

Master Kahn bowed and threw the knives one after another towards the young master. Peter caught them all.

Next, Kahn picked two arrows and a spear. Peter only stared at him. The older master understood the sign and threw the weapons, simultaneously. Peter caught the arrows but his mind did not manage to command the body on time as to what should be done with the spear, so he had to step back in order to avoid the spear stabbing his abdomen.

Peter closed eyes and tried to retain his meditative state. It took him almost two minutes to silence the voice rising from the shattered debts of his heart, screaming 'You're a failure'. There was going to be time to deal with it eventually, but it was not now. He also paid no attention to his bleeding palm.

Then Peter turned, speechlessly pointing at Master Kahn that he was ready to continue.

'Pete, I'm not sure…'

'Don't defy me, Kahn. Not now. … Please!'

Kahn bowed and picked two charged cross-bows, each holding two arrows. Peter had accepted the near presence of death; it was all the same to him whether they would meet here, in this room, or on foreign grounds south of the border. He knew he was attempting an exercise his own father had tried few years ago, and he felt good.

Kahn released the strings. The arrows whizzed but never hit a target. Amazed Kahn saw the young priest standing with his eyes closed, with the four arrows between his fingers. Peter looked. The arrows in his left hand were only millimetres away from his heart. He smiled. He was reminded once more that if he trusted his instincts implicitly, he could achieve anything.

Next thing he did was to leave the arrows on the ground and jump. The whole ceiling had been laid with metallic clamps, making it look like and upside-down cricket filed. Peter started moving. From below he looked like a spider: he used his hands and feet to balance on the clamps, and was moving around, constantly changing directions. The exercise lasted four minutes. Peter could not hide his disappointment; he had aimed for at least five.

By the time Peter was done with his practice, Master Kahn had cleared the room, making it ready for the classes later. Peter took a shower, picked a black traveling bag, and then went to the ground floor to spend few minutes in front of the altar there.

Then the priest got up and headed for the door. Before pressing the handle he turned, and saw Kahn looking at him. The two men nodded at each other. Then they greeted with the palm and the fist, and Peter finally left. He wished that all good-byes could be as simple as this one. He did not know if he was going to see his neighbourhood again, and he had not had the heart to call on his foster-parents.

The sun was just rising; the streets were still empty. The sparrows and the parked cars were the only witnesses of the solitary figure of a tall man in black clothes, holding a sack, walking down the main street of Chinatown, Sloanville.

**X**

The morning was sunny but cold. The crisp air made sure that even those who had left the warmth of their homes early would be awake and alert.

The weather was the same in all parts of the city, downtown and in the suburbs, in the poor and in the decent areas. A family living in one such decent area was already awake and about their routine. They were not as lively as usual but then, they had few reasons to be so.

Their older daughter was just one step from the divorce; their son had become next to a stranger, and the father was in a hell of his own. He has been in this hell for a year or so, and just when he thought he had defeated his demons, it turned out that God had other plans. Now the man of the house was in a hell which his family entire had to share with him, a hell called cancer.

The bell rang and the door opened. A man with green glasses who felt pretty much at home with the family entered.

'Anybody home?'

A blond woman with black glasses appeared.

'Why, Kermit, it's been a while.' They kissed. 'How nice to see you, darling! How are you?'

'Never better, Annie! How are things here?'

A shadow ran through the woman's face. 'We're good, we're good. I'm afraid Paul isn't available at the moment, if you're looking for him.'

Kermit heard coughing from the sitting room.

'But he's here… Annie, is everything all right?'

'Yes, dear, just we're not very fit for visitors at the moment.'

A hoarse voice came from the other room.

'Kermit, over here.'

'He's obstinate like a donkey!' Annie hurried ahead of her guest. She was walking so securely that Kermit wondered yet again whether she did not have radar the way bats have…

Paul Blaisdell was sitting on the sofa by the glass door leading to the back yard. He had the TV on, wearing a dark blue robe; he was covered with a thick blanket, with a bunch of strange bottles on the coffee table next to him. He was pale, and at least five kilos slimmer than he was when Kermit saw him last, two months ago.

Kermit was stunned at the sight of the sick man. Annie sat beside him, as if trying to shield her husband from the unexpected guest.

'Annie, sweetheart, would you leave us alone?'

'You know, I'm quite sick of you keeping your mercenary secrets from me.'

'Actually, Paul is right. You'd better leave us alone, Annie. Please?'

Both men wanted to shield the blind woman but from different threats. Her husband – from hearing the horrible truth of his imminent faith, which he was going to stump on Kermit just now; Kermit – from hearing the news that the lovely dinner they had for Kelly's birthday in late May could be the last time she saw her son alive.

'Jeez, Paul, you look horrible!'

'I don't think you're here to discuss my looks.'

'Unfortunately I'm not.'

'Flint called me. He wanted to confirm your traveling… to Mexico? Are all seats with American Airlines booked?'

Moses Flint was a former mercenary, now busy with the respectable business of courier services. He was also providing some not so respectable services such as transfer of people who were not supposed to be transferred.

'No airline can help me in the present case.' Kermit paused then horrified he quickly added. 'What did you tell him?'

Paul smiled. 'What do you think I told him; the man would go into fire for either of us. You're clear for take-off at 3pm; you know where.'

Kermit sighed relieved. 'Yes, I know where.'

'What are you going to do in Mexico?'

'I have business there that needs urgent actions.'

'Private matter?'

'I'd say global.'

Paul might have retired but he still kept track of who was hot and who was not in the underworld.

'Don't tell me it's about Ketonna.' Kermit nodded. 'Gosh, what do you think you'll achieve? This man is insane.'

'Somebody has to stop him.'

'Why you, why now?'

'Why: because I got asked to do it. Remember Thilden? He came to me on your recommendation.' Paul shook head with regret. 'Now: because the tournament is on.'

'You're going alone?'

'I'm not that good in martial arts, Paul.'

Kermit did not need say more. Paul opened wide his eyes; there was a look of horror in them, horror that quickly changed into fury. The man got up and attacked Kermit.

'You son of a…' However Paul trembled, lost his balance and collapsed in Kermit's arms; blood was dripping from his nose.

'God, Paul… Are you OK?'

Carefully Kermit put his former captain back on the couch and instinctively stepped back, as the older man was stubbornly trying to free himself from the detective's hands and hit him.

'You, bastard, traitor… How could you?' Paul was shouting. 'I swear…' He coughed, then he wiped the blood from his nose; the falling tears washed away the red traces from the wrinkled skin. Blaisdell was just a shadow of his former self.

Kermit took paper tissue and wiped Paul's face.

'If you don't lower your voice, Annie will hear, and then we'll have to explain to her, too. Do you want that?'

Paul relaxed and helplessly relaxed head on his arm.

'Fate is a strange thing, Paul. Its most recent caprice made so that it sent Peter to that same place as me, hours before I asked him to join me there.' Kermit leaned closer to his friend. 'With me at least he has a chance, Paul, any chance. We're doing this, no going back.'

'These people are killing machines. He won't last an hour.' Paul was sobbing.

Kermit kept talking calmly. 'If you had been so benevolent as to come down and see him at least once, you'd know that your foster-son has become a better fighter, and a better man, than you give him credit. A lot changed since you left, Paul; the reckless son you left behind is now a wise and respected man who, I swear, can put Bruce Lee on his back.'

'You don't know what you're talking about.' But Kermit knew. And so did Paul.

The captain simply did not wish to admit that there was almost nothing left in his foster-son that he knew. Once he wanted to believe that there was something from him in Peter; now all he could see was a younger, contemporary reincarnation of Kwai Chang Caine. That hurt like no wound he ever had. Peter was not to him anymore, and Blaisdell still could not accept that. He probably never would.

'You must have faith in him.'

Paul looked through Kermit towards the fireplace, where he could see a photo of his beautiful son, taken in the day when Peter had passed the detectives' test, making him one of the youngest detectives in the force. That was how he wanted to remember his boy the cop, from the days when Peter was only his and Annie's, and the dead were where they belonged – in the past.

'My son… Oh, God…'

Paul had suddenly become feverish. It was time for his medicines. He asked Kermit for a glass of water.

'Do you want to tell me what's going on?'

'Do you want to promise me not to tell Peter?'

'Even if I do tell him, it will be when all this is over.'

'They found me a tumor-like formation, inoperable.'

Kermit was motionless. How could he hide from Peter that his foster-father was dying?

'How long?'

'A year or two, could be more, could be less... Could be any moment now…'

'How did you hide it from Peter?'

'Told him I developed migraine.'

'Is that why you would not come and see him?'

'To a degree, yes.'

Kermit massaged his eyes. Denying Peter the chance to take good-bye from Paul was going to remain one of his greatest sins.

'I have to go now.'

Blaisdell looked helplessly at Kermit and stretched hand begging. Kermit grabbed the hand and held it tight.

'I'll bring him back, Paul; I promise, I'll do my best to bring him back to you. And you promise to hold on, you hear me?'

Paul nodded. The detective with the green glasses left, and behind him was a tearful wrinkled white-haired man, hugging the picture of a smiled young police officer.

'My son... My son…'

**XXX**


	6. EPILOGUE

EPILOGUE

One week later, June 12

_'Dear ladies and gentlemen, here is Rosanna Patterson for CNN, directly from Veracruz, Mexico. We are sharing live with you the events that shook the world._

_You can see behind me the smoke coming from a small island off the coast. …. Only hours ago, after a joint raid by CIA and Interpol, one of the largest criminal chains on this side of the Ocean was broken. It was organized by the infamous Thomas Ketonna, nicknamed R.I.P., who…. Who, as I am told just now, news are flowing every minute, ladies and gentlemen, who I am told is rumored dead. …It…it is not known how it happened; we are suspecting the whole thing went down with the help of undercover agents who have been in the heart of the events from the very beginning._

_Ladies and gentlemen, we are still hoping to meet with General C.W. Woodword from Interpol who is referred to as the official commander of this operation. In the meantime I can give you some fresh numbers: at least twenty people are reported dead; … thirty…. What… Right… at least… at least twice more - wounded, both from Ketonna's men and also soldiers. You can hear the helicopters flying above us; there is an emergency camp down at the village; two ERs in the city are engaged in taking in the victims' bodies and those who can still be saved._

_For now it is known that Ketonna had kept captive at least thirty men and women, even a baby! Can you imagine, dear friends, even children are involved. We can't tell you with certainty what Ketonna had been using his prisoners for. I remind you that they are all trained martial artists._

_We still don't know… Repeat, repeat?... Yes… We still don't know if all of the captives have survived, but ladies and gentlemen, only minutes from now we can expect General Woodword himself here with us. You, our audience, are going to be the first in the world to get to know the latest data from the event of the year, as there hasn't been any official press conference yet…'_

Millions of people had stopped their daily tasks, eyes fixated in the blue boxes transmitting sound and picture from across thousands of miles. Millions of voices were praying, silently or in loud voice. Many of them thanked for the great evil the world had been rid of. But many were also the aching hearts of parents, spouses and siblings, who, despite the positive outcome of the events, still did not know if they were to see their loved ones ever again.

**_'General Woodword, welcome on air, here for CNN Live from Mexico.'_**

_'Thank you! I'd say it is a pleasure but the circumstances don't allow me to do so.'_

**_'Believe me, General, we understand. Without further ado, General, do tell us the latest news from the Island. We hear rumors but they are nothing more than rumors unless confirmed.'_**

_'Yes. I can hearby confirm that the famous mafia boss Thomas Ketonna, known as R.I.P., is dead. This was an operation we have been planning for months, in tight cooperation with CIA. It wasn't easy, we met with many obstacles, we gave casualties, but in the end we succeeded.'_

**_'Did you really have undercover men there, and was Ketonna killed by one of them?'_**

_'This operation would have been impossible without help from the inside. Certainly I can't give you names but yes, we did have undercover people, and, though I underline I do __not__ find it important for the case, I can almost certainly confirm Ketonna was killed by one of our undercover agents. We didn't plan to have Ketonna murdered, it was estimated, however, that he may be so, and I must express a sense of relief that the world has been rid of a great danger.'_

**_'Do you really believe Ketonna was so dangerous?'_**

_'We are yet to collect and analyse our data. Ketonna has been planning several terrorist attacks for the purpose of which he was going to use his fighters…'_

**_'The ones he held prisoners?'_**

_'Yes. We are still not sure what exactly he was up to but to answer your question yes, Thomas Ketonna was a real danger to the global peace.'_

**_'We are told that only a small number of commandos have been sent to the Island, outnumbered 3:1 by Ketonna's army; yet the final result is a complete defeat for Ketonna. How many soldiers participated in this operation, sir?'_**

_'I am not allowed to give you such information. But people must know that for about an hour this tiny island was a war zone. There was a rain of bullets and close combats right below that rain; it was hell under the sun, Miss Patterson. And here is the place for me to say how grateful I am, we all are, to the imprisoned fighters. They united and joined forces with us so that final victory may be secured. They fought side by side with our soldiers even…'_

**_'Are there any casualties from among the fighters?'_**

_'…Fortunately, no…'_

In that moment the mother, sitting in her hotel room in a North-American city, opened her praying hands, crossed herself and looked up the sky through the window. A silent 'Thank you' left her dried lips and she finally broke down, grateful and exhausted.

_'…Unfortunately we did give casualties. Here I must say how deeply grateful I am to all of our men, both those on the inside and the soldiers, and a special 'thank you' to the imprisoned martial artists who fought for their freedom. This would not have been possible without them!_

_However, I am asking you now to send your thoughts and prayers to the families of the men who are never going to leave Veracruz. They came here to fight for others, and selflessly gave their lives so that others may live. __They__ are the true heroes, __they__ made this happen, and their sacrifice will be remembered! We are going to arrange that their bodies are transferred and buried at the grounds of Arlington.'_

**_'We all are going to pray for them. ... And now, that it's over, what comes next, General?'_**

_'There's going to be full investigation, and those of Ketonna's men who survived the raid will stand trial. The wounded agents and fighters will be treated for a while in Mexico, and as soon as they are stabilised we'll transfer them to Houston. Be sure that all costs will be covered, and compensations and premiums are due for all of our agents, before all for the families of the fallen ones. I know it can't replace them, but it is our humble way to express our endless gratitude for their heroism and sacrifice.'_

**_'I'm sure it will be appreciated. Now, I'm given signal that we have to stop for the moment. You need to resume your duties, too, General; I'm sure you have a lot on your mind.'_**

_'Indeed I do. Actually just now I'm going to the General Hospital here in Veracruz where the seriously injured are. I must make sure that we won't give any other casualties today. Thank you for the hospitality. Now, please, excuse me!'_

**_'Thank you for the time, General. …_**

_General C.W. Woodoword from Interpol, ladies and gentlemen. We are going to make a short break now; we'll be back in 15 minutes. Please, be sure to follow us for more news from Veracruz, Mexico, and the biggest anti-mafia raid in the world for the past two years at least. From Mexico for you, Rosanna Patterson, CNN.'_

On the streets people were shaking heads, listening to the broadcast from TV sets and radios, wondering where this world was going.

An old Asian man, sitting by his little radio, wiped a tear and helplessly leaned head on his trembling wrinkled hand.

A younger man was watching together with other men in a room. He remained serious until he left the place and resumed his practice. He did not interrupt the vigorous training for more than an hour, until his exhausted body collapsed on the floor, gaze fixated in the ceiling, lips silently mumbling 'No, please…! Please…'

Many men and women employed in law enforcement were also watching. Behind their desks, in their cars while on duty, they were praying for their colleagues, while lieutenants and captains were watching from their offices. Some remained somber, some quite shaken; one of them was standing with her officers in the squad room, holding a pen and stubbornly not returning to her desk, fearing that somebody may see her tears.

There was the father, too. The physical pain that was tormenting his body was nothing to the agonising pain in his heart. The unknown was staring at him, laughing at the poor man who had sent a son into battle, and there was nobody to tell him if he was ever to see his boy again. The father's prayers were meant solely for God's ears, since his wife knew nothing of their son's whereabouts. His pain was meant solely for himself.

In another land, on another continent, another father sat and listened to the news with aching heart. He caressed his son, sitting by his side.

'This is Fate, my son; we are but powerless pawns in Her hands.'

'This is not to be borne, father. I cannot go on, I have no power left... Perhaps I can try to contact…'

'And ruin everything? No, my son, no. You have come this far, you cannot quit now. Look at me, look at me!'

The father sank into his son's tears. 'You are so close! If you give up now all this would have been in vain. If not for yourself, do it for him, for your son, my grandson. You will bring peace to his soul, wherever it may be now. '

'Yes…' The son relaxed powerless in the chair, amidst the crowded village café, where everyone had gathered to see the news report. The old father leaned and put hand around his son's arms, allowing his first-born child to rest head on his shoulders and seek consolation for a pain that was inconsolable.

**X**

'Oh my God… This can't be...'

The woman did not know whether to cry or to smile.

'He is dead? Did the man say he's dead?'

'Yes!' She looked at her husband shocked. 'Thomas… is dead…', whispered she.

Her husband hugged her. 'Do you know what that means? You're free, my dear, you are free! _We_ are free.'

'And Walter? He'll find us. Sooner or later he'll find us.'

'Without Ketonna's men and money he's powerless. He has what, 5 – 10 men? He can't afford more. We'll leave now, today, and he'll never find us again. Ever!'

He tried to kiss her but she lightly pulled herself back. The man sighed.

'Again the same dream?'

'Yes.'

'Well, unfortunately the dead rise from their graves only in the Bible… and in dreams; in the world of the living we're on our own.'

'Henry…' The woman had apparently sickly constitution; she was pale and tired. 'I don't want to leave. I…'

'We can't stay here! He knows we're in France, sooner or later he'll find us! Let's at least leave Paris, find some village by the coast and stay there.'

'All right, but I want to stay here for now. I can't, Henry, I can't run any longer.'

'Hey, hey, we're almost there. It's nearly over…. OK, look… I'll go. I'll travel for a bit, I'll find us a place. You stay here and wait for me. And… don't go out too much, please, especially to that place!'

'Why not there? I like it, the scent of mountain herbs brings me peace.'

'It makes you sad. And I don't want that.'

'Why are you doing this for me?'

'Because I love you!' Henry looked at his wife's eyes, desperately seeking a response, but all he saw was the same, gratitude and regret.

The couple kissed and the man went up to their room to prepare some things and leave for the South as soon as he could. His wife took a sip from her café au lait and spilled a little. Her hands were still shaking. She could not believe that the man that had destroyed her life was finally dead.

It was not a good a thing to think about but yet the thought crept in. She crossed fingers. 'Thank you, whoever you are! You don't know what you did… You avenged my family, my husband, my baby…'

She tried to cry but she could not. Too many tears have been shed, she had none left. She took a photo out of her pocket. It was one with a much younger version of herself, sitting in the middle of a field with flowers on a sunny summer day, holding a two-year old boy in her arms. She kissed it. 'My mysterious saviour, thank you!'

The noise of cracking wood woke her from her little trance. The woman looked towards the hotel bar. There two young men were playing pool. She watched their game for a while, attracted by the colourful balls rolling in all directions on the table. Amongst them the white ball stood out. The woman observed it; it was the most important piece in the game.

The men resembled gods who were using the white ball to send the colourful ones to their intended places. The white ball looked so powerful. It left the table a few times, it cracked and hit, but nevertheless it was going to do what it was meant to do. It hit some of the colourful balls. They rolled and hit others, which eventually in their turn could hit others, and finally all of the balls would find their places and go on their paths.

Sooner or later the whole table would be clear, because nothing will remain untouched by the force of the rolling White Ball.

**END OF TALE I**

**TO BE CONTINUED**


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